by Emma Lathen
“Without qualms, eh, Everett?” Thatcher asked.
Everett pursed his lips. “I only wished it were something stronger!”
It had been clear from the quantities being prepared by Eleni that she was feeding the whole household, although Everett would eat alone in his room. It was clear that Greek cookery could mask any quantity of soporifics. With a last horrified glance, Everett sped from the kitchen, reaching the upstairs hallway just in time to find the bald man emerging in search of him.
Their fruitless dialogue was resumed until lunchtime. Everett was then escorted back to his room; Eleni climbed the stairs with a tray in her hands. Everett waited until she had left, then hurried over to check the menu. Bread, cold lamb, salad, a carafe of wine—and a steaming bowl of soup.
Congratulating himself, Everett lunched delicately but adequately upon bread, lamb, and salad.
“Greeks put something into their wine,” he reported austerely. “Something very strange.”
Then, after disposing of the brain soup in his bathroom, he settled down to wait. If his calculations were correct, the household was now settling down to the large dining room table. How long would it take Dr. Rubin’s pills to work? He did not know. In the meantime, supremely confident, Everett dozed briefly. When he awoke, he went to his door. There was utter silence. Taking a deep breath, he turned the handle. Unlocked.
“Splendid,” thought Everett. He picked up his dispatch case, looked around vainly for the hat he had misplaced, and set off.
“Were they slumped over the dining room table?” Thatcher asked, enthralled by this emergence of the Scarlet Pimpernel.
With his customary disapproval of inessentials, Everett replied that he had not stopped to find out. Instead he hurried downstairs, opened the door, waited for a moment, and then, when no restraint appeared, walked out.
“Dogs,” suggested Thatcher weakly. He had forgotten that Everett was a stalwart of the American Kennel Club.
“Two unprepossessing animals,” said Gabler. “Certainly not trained guard dogs. It was only necessary to speak firmly to them. One did bark. But since nothing happened, I continued. Fortunately, the garden gates were not locked. I found myself on a dirt road. In about a mile, I came to a paved highway, which turns out to be the road from Athens to Sounion . . .”
“And that was when the bus went by?”
“Precisely,” said Everett.
Thatcher was quite truthful. “Everett I find all of this impressive.” He did not add that Everett among the Teutons was a picture he was going to cherish. “Now then, can you tell me anything else?” Everett searched his memory and came up with nothing he had not already recounted.
“Hmm,” said Thatcher. A determined and rather desperate search for Nicolls was in its way heartening; the men who had kidnapped Everett at least thought that Nicolls was still alive.
These men at Sounion like the police knew that Nicolls’ business card had been found on the murdered Dr. Ziros. But why should that make them assume that Ziros had passed his subversive documents to a stray American?
“You don’t have any doubt that these people are opponents of the current regime?” Thatcher asked thoughtfully.
Gabler considered this. “Not unless the whole thing was an elaborate hoax,” he decided. “They certainly sounded as if they thought they were in danger. And there is no doubt they were connected with Ziros, who was killed.”
“Which suggests that they are leftists, too,” said Thatcher.
Everett greeted the arrival of tea and toast with enthusiasm. “John,” he said, “I do not want to see the Sloan getting involved in the political maneuverings of this country!”
Thatcher made a gesture of impatience. “But Everett, Nicolls is still missing! We’re still committed to these damned Hellenus negotiations! And for all we know you may be a mass murderer!”
Everett Gabler for once, was thunderstruck. “Mass mur—good heavens! That never occurred to me!” It did not dismay him unduly.
Thatcher forged on. “Once you’ve finished that tea—”
“And had some sleep,” Everett interposed firmly.
“Regular hours are the most important health requirement and I haven’t . . .”
Thatcher cut in. “We’re going to have to report your return to the government. And they’re going to want to know . . .”
Everett Gabler had clearly decided that all Greeks, whatever their political persuasion were his enemies. “I was on the main road to Sounion,” he pointed out. “I gather the whole area is honeycombed with vacation homes, so that it would be difficult to specify exactly where I was.”
“Could you?”
“Of course!” said Everett. “Then after I was kidnapped, I was asked meaningless questions about Nicolls.”
“I suppose we will have to say that much,” Thatcher muttered.
“By people whom I understood only imperfectly. What their motives, politics, or goals were, I did not understand.”
Everett, the very model of Protestant rectitude, lofted a cup triumphantly. Thatcher grinned. The Sloan was about to take a very strict reading of the letter of the law and their obligations to abide by it. At the moment Nicolls was missing, the Sloan investments in jeopardy, so Thatcher and Everett were not putting their faith in anyone else. Especially not with the current Greek government.
Chapter 14
Stranger, Go Tell the Lacedaemonians
A poached egg, a few hours’ sleep, and a change of dress completed the restoration of Everett Gabler. When Thatcher and he met for breakfast the next morning, Everett was ready for action. This did not surprise Thatcher, who had never been misled by soy beans, herbal infusions, and other healthful messes; Everett had always been as tough as old boots.
“I only hope,” Thatcher remarked when they sat down, “that Nicolls comes through his adventures as well as you have come through yours.”
Everett had been brought up to date the night before. “He seems to have been able to keep one step ahead,” he said. “All things considered, he’s doing very well—for a young man.”
Thatcher saw that when the chips were down, Everett was defending the Sloan against all comers, particularly Greeks. Presumably this included Captain Philopoulos and the police. He could only hope that Everett would not run across a colonel.
“Now Everett, when you report to the police this morning—”
“The Embassy insists on being present for some reason or other,” Everett interrupted to say.
“Yes. Now about what you’re going to tell them. . . .” Everett detached himself from an orange and cast a cold eye upon his chief. He was perfectly prepared to mislead the police; he refused to put it in quite those terms.
“I shall of course cooperate fully,” he proclaimed, with a return to his pre-solidarity censure. “Everything which I know for a fact I shall report to the proper authorities. Naturally I would not convey theories or speculations. That would be grossly irresponsible.”
He returned to the orange and not for the first time Thatcher wished that he could live up to Everett Gabler’s militant propriety. It was his own lamentable propensity for calling a spade a spade that distressed so many of his subordinates. Not that any such distress had precluded a full frank exchange of views. Despite differences in personal style Gabler and Thatcher were currently as one on fundamentals: until Nicolls turned up, until certain ambiguities concerning Hellenus were resolved, nothing—and nobody—in Greece was to be trusted.
Thatcher was reminded of this after seeing Everett off in the direction of Kotzia Square, the luckless Mr. Riemer in tow. Everett was warming up.
“I hope that the strongest representations will be made,” he had crisply told Riemer, cutting into congratulations upon his happy escape. “Certainly if this regime cannot keep the streets free of violence . . .”
Everett’s spirited paraphrase of an American political dialectic was still ringing in Thatcher’s ears when a depressed youth materialized at his el
bow, whispered something incomprehensible, then resorted to pantomime to indicate a waiting telephone call. As he approached the desk, Thatcher caught sight of Mr. Tsaras, the Britannia’s manager. He was gazing bleakly and unhopefully after the departing Gabler. Well whatever the rest of Greece felt one thing was certain. The Hotel Britannia looked on the Sloan as an enemy.
The telephone was Peter Chiros of Makris suggesting a business lunch.
“What business?” Thatcher asked tartly.
But Chiros glided on to warm felicitations about the safe return of Everett Gabler. So happy did it make him, it seemed, that he was repeating his pleasure two hours later when he and Thatcher met in the carefully Hellenic bar of the Athens Hilton.
“Ah, Mr. Thatcher! Here, let me recommend the martinis. They are excellent!”
They were. Nevertheless Thatcher projected impatience. The morning’s review of the Hellenus file had been punctuated by fuming telephone calls from Everett still closeted at the Ministry. The calls reported no progress; the files were uninformative; Thatcher’s irritation mounted.
“How extremely fortunate that no harm has befallen Mr. Gabler,” said Chiros. “In these troubled times with so much confusion it is perhaps natural for us to fear the worst.”
Repressively Thatcher agreed. He was not tempted to relax his caution when it came to Makris or its local agent Peter Chiros.
With the appearance of genuine interest Chiros asked if Gabler had returned with any new information.
Thatcher obliged with a liberally abridged version of Everett’s misadventures.
“Ah, yes,” said Chiros, politely mournful. “Yes, I can understand that a foreigner not speaking Greek might find it difficult to know who his captors were. Or where they were.”
“With a blanket over your head,” Thatcher pointed out, “it doesn’t really make much difference what language you speak.”
“He did not form any opinion, then, of the political complexion of the . . . er . . . criminals who were holding him?”
Just how genuine was this, Thatcher wondered. The Makris interests had learned of Everett’s escape with unusual promptness. Was it possible they did not know that leftists had kidnapped Everett?
If so, this was the first gap in Makris’ intelligence. And the Makrises of this world do not get where they are with flawed intelligence systems.
Aloud, Thatcher said, “I gather that Everett had no extended discussions with them. They asked where Nicolls was—and that was all.”
“Ah yes.” Chiros was too polite to sound skeptical. Instead he sounded remote. “Tell me, Mr. Thatcher, how did Mr. Gabler manage to escape?”
Thatcher was tiring of Byzantine cunning. He gave way to his baser self. “He overpowered them,” he said unhesitatingly. “Everett happens to be one of New York’s crack karate specialists!”
“I see,” said Chiros. Still, he could not keep from growing even more remote. “Perhaps we can have our second drink at the table.”
Mercifully, lunch was Hilton-International with a view to the traveling American. This enabled Thatcher to eat a very adequate steak and a baked potato. He was still waiting for Chiros to come to the point. Unless he was mistaken, Chiros, for all his dapper tailoring and showy cuff links, was a high level messenger boy. And, Thatcher fulminated, Makris had better not be wasting his time at this juncture.
Particularly since he strongly suspected that Makris already knew more about Everett’s experiences than Everett did.
On the other hand was there any reason why Makris should worry about what the Sloan knew—or did not know? Absently chewing Thatcher thought how little cerulean skies and alien tongues alter fundamentals; the stakes were high. 36 million dollars. Hellenus was large enough to cause a lot of trouble. But here Thatcher checked himself. It is one thing to behave with prudent circumspection. It is another to assume that one’s partner is double-dealing. In the absence of proof, that is. But something was most assuredly in the wind. Thatcher waited.
It came with the thick syrupy coffee and baklava which was the Hilton’s gesture to local color.
“I have asked you to join me, Mr. Thatcher, because certain facts have come to our attention. So often . . . er . . . informal contacts are more informative than official channels. Particularly during days of change and confusion.”
“Official channels have been more than useless,” said Thatcher, suppressing an insane desire to shake Chiros until his teeth rattled.
“About Mr. Nicolls,” Chiros continued. “We have asked our representatives in the north to make inquiries. And now, reports are coming in. Not, you understand that they are very clear . . .”
“Do you know where he is?” Thatcher demanded with Anglo-Saxon directness.
Chiros shook his head. “No indeed. We would have reported that to you immediately. We have learned that he has been seen in the north . . .”
The urge to shake was being supplanted by an urge to strangle.
“And we are fairly certain,” Chiros continued, “that he is still there. More coffee? Ah, paidi!”
After the waiter ambled away, Chiros presented Thatcher with a detailed description of Ken Nicolls’ movements. Thatcher, a good listener, did not interrupt as Chiros repeated what was already known to him. First came a description of Nicolls in the Salonika railroad station. Then the fleeting encounter with Ziros.
“Who was,” Chiros said precisely, “a prominent member of ASPIDA, which is the leftist opposition to the current government. Ziros was probably carrying something of interest—possibly something subversive, or worse. Somehow”—here Chiros delicately applied napkin to lips—”somehow the government was informed. It would be interesting to know how. But, at any rate, that was why your Mr. Nicolls was arrested.”
He then proceeded to an elliptical account of the Ziros murder. Thatcher registered the fact that the word used was murder, not execution, but again made no comment. Chiros went on to the earthquake and the sudden liberation of the Greek Army’s prisoners.
“Until this point, you see, we know what happened to Mr. Nicolls.”
Thatcher, unsmiling, was quite deliberate. “It almost sounds as if you had sources among the men who were arrested with Nicolls.”
A flash of dark eyes informed him that he had scored a hit, but Chiros continued: “After Mr. Nicolls broke away from the Army van, his track is not so easy to follow. However, we know he is moving steadily southward.”
Chiros recited his evidence: Nicolls’ stay at an American Friends Service camp, his departure from the camp in an ambulance bound for Larissa, his failure to return.
But Nicolls was not coming steadily southward, Thatcher knew. There had been that call from Jamison, the Canadian—up north. Thatcher decided to keep the call to himself.
“And now?” he asked. “Where is Nicolls now?”
Chiros unbent enough to shrug. “We cannot say. There have been people searching for him. Perhaps they are the same people who kidnapped Mr. Gabler. Or perhaps others. Perhaps Mr. Nicolls has found some place of safety. But then, we cannot be sure.”
Thatcher’s voice was level. “I appreciate this information, Mr. Chiros. Not that it seems immediately helpful . . .”
“Then perhaps this may be,” said Chiros in a silky voice. He leaned over to fumble in the briefcase at his feet. “It was found in Larissa. Fortunately, it came into our hands. No doubt there was once money in it . . . but still . . .”
He laid an object before Thatcher. “Yes, it is the wallet of Mr. Nicolls.”
Clearly it was his revenge for karate.
“And I can’t really blame him,” Thatcher was saying two hours later. “No doubt this Mexican stand-off is as infuriating to him as it is to us. But he obviously had instructions to be careful.”
Everett was industriously poring over the contents of Nicolls’ wallet. Credit cards, in a quantity that would not have escaped comment if the derelict wallet had not been so ominous. Two snapshots of Jane Nicolls; six snapshots of the
Nicolls infant and, naturally enough, none of the newborn. A library card. An appointment with a Brooklyn Heights dentist. Many scraps of paper with cabalistic notations that were totally meaningless to Thatcher and Gabler, and probably to Nicolls as well. Two receipts, one for a snow tire, one for a portable television set. A thick wad of business cards. There was not one cent, one dollar or one drachma.
“I don’t suppose that should surprise us,” said Everett, carefully checking every single business card again. At each penciled note, he squinted with cold appraisal. “These poor people need every penny they can get. I suppose we can consider ourselves fortunate that the wallet has turned up.”
Thatcher saw that the tables were turned. Here was a veteran naysayer and pessimist embarked on espousing the power of positive thinking.
Everett stubbornly reiterated an earlier cause for cheer. “And we know that this wasn’t picked from Nicolls’ pocket in Salonika or at Hellenus earlier—because of this!”
This was a business card, segregated from the rest by virtue of its size and importance.
Elias Ziros, Docteur ès lettres
Senior Archivist and Ephor of Antiquities
University Museum
University of Thessaloniki
“God knows,” said Thatcher wrathfully examining it, “it seems inhuman to say so now that this poor wretch has been gunned down, but I wish it had happened before Nicolls came onto the scene! And remind me to tell Nicolls—if and when we get the chance—that he should be careful about these casual conversations of his!”
Everett, who had spent the day turning away questions from the police and certain representatives of the Army, had one of his own.
“And just where Makris fits into this, I’d like to know!”
Chapter 15
We Lie Here at Their Command
The questions that can be asked about a limp fold of pigskin are limited. As for answers, they are in even shorter supply. Everett’s query had been rhetorical as he was the first to admit.
“Pah!” he said, pushing aside the small pile of documents. “This is nonsense John. The only important thing about this wallet is how it came into Chiros’ hands. It’s suspicious, very suspicious.”
