When in Greece

by Emma Lathen

  Everett knew his limitations in the field of woman well enough to have remained aloof from the hard sell. Now he joined Thatcher in profuse acknowledgments of indebtedness. Unfortunately he felt the necessity to temper gratitude with advice.

  “You won’t drive through the night, will you?” he asked in concern. “It might draw attention to you. You want to look as normal as possible. There may be more than one faction involved. These Greek political questions can become quite complex.”

  Lorna Jenkins’ lip quivered. “So I understand,” she said, gravely.

  “We suspected as much during the Civil War,” said Kate Murphy brightly.

  Was that a glint of amusement in Lorna Jenkins’ eyes?

  “You mean you were here during the Civil War?” Gabler asked, astounded.

  It developed that the ladies had been digging throughout that time of turmoil. Indeed they had been right in the path of the retreating Communist force, with its immense detachment of hostages, during its final withdrawal over the border. The Communists had made spirited attempts to add the ladies to that detachment. Not quite so spirited, however, as the ladies’ resistance. They had no wish to go to Bulgaria, a country singularly without interest for the classicist.

  “Everything was very confused then,” Kate Murphy recalled nostalgically. “But not as confused as during the war.”

  “Were you here then, too?” Gabler asked weakly.

  Thatcher had enough sense to keep his mouth shut.

  Oh yes, they replied. They had been digging so assiduously that the events of 1941 had overtaken them. They had ended up on the beaches of the Peloponnesus with the ill-fated British Expeditionary Force and been evacuated with them to Cairo.

  Thatcher now had a question. Why had they not stayed as guerillas? Aloud he asked: “And what did you do then?”

  The ladies were nothing if not adaptable. They had, perforce, turned themselves into Egyptologists for the duration.

  “A very unrewarding field,” Lorna Jenkins summed up.

  “Difficult too,” Kate contributed. “Particularly with all those armies trampling back and forth.”

  To give him his due Everett knew when he was beaten. He did not venture any further counsel on what to do when in Greece. The two bankers contented themselves with standing to one side and waving as the rackety truck finally swung out of the alley and turned to the north.

  “I am glad you did not probe further into their Egyptian experiences,” Thatcher observed. “They probably turned back the Afrika Korps single-handedly.”

  Everett had always reserved his highest approval for people who go on with the job. He was beginning to rank Lorna Jenkins as one of the world’s few entirely satisfactory human beings.

  “This is no time for witticism, John,” he said sternly. “We should be deeply thankful. There is no doubt that we are delivering Nicolls into trustworthy hands.”

  Chapter 17

  Pandora’s Box

  The ladies who were setting out to rescue Ken Nicolls inspired Everett’s confidence. Once converted they did not need extensive briefing. Not so Carl Ingraham. Finally tracked down amidst smelly boats, untidy tackle and foul-weather gear, he was willing but confused. With exasperating care he read the note Kate Murphy had scrawled and examined Thatcher’s microfilm. He agreed to do what he could.

  “Right away?” Gabler pressed.

  Ingraham did not see anything to get excited about. “Well sure if you think it’s important.”

  He did not sound convinced by their assurances, but a midnight telephone call testified that his doubts had been dispelled.

  “Listen, no names!” he whispered hoarsely. “Just follow these instructions . . .”

  Accordingly, at six o’clock the following morning John Putnam Thatcher and Everett Gabler, both impeccable dressed in business suits, were perched on dusty rocks by the Parthenon. From this historic height, they were watching the sun’s first golden fingers touch the ancient marble of Athens with the daily miracle of light. Six Swiss school-teachers from Zug, studying the maidens of the Erechtheum and commemorating their timeless beauty with expensive cameras, were puzzled at their inactivity.

  “Look, Xavier,” one of them adjured another. “That hill, over there! How beautiful in this light of early morning. Do you know what it is?”

  Xavier exchanged guide book for camera, riffled through it, then shook his head. Agilely stepping down a ruined step he approached the silent and immobile Gabler.

  “Please,” he said. “Do you know what it is—that beautiful hill there, almost as high as is here the Acropolis?”

  Everett, never at his best before breakfast, did. “That,” he said firmly, “is the municipal gas works of the city of Athens.”

  The Swiss retreated to relay this information to his companions who gave loud cries of disbelief. Casting reproachful looks behind them, they scrambled away.

  “And is it?” Thatcher inquired.

  “I believe so,” said Gabler. “However, that is neither here nor there. I still wish I knew why it was necessary for us to hurtle up here at this unearthly hour.”

  Thatcher sighed. Everett had his difficult moments. He was not protesting at the early hour being an adherent of the early-to-bed school of mental and physical health. But midnight phone calls and surreptitious trysts—even in a good cause—were not Everett’s way of doing business. Fortunately his further strictures were forestalled.

  Carl Ingraham came huffing up the path.

  “Sorry to be so mysterious,” he said dropping down beside them. “But I thought it would be better to meet where we couldn’t be overheard.” He glanced at a large party of Dutch nuns who were chirping merrily as they followed in his wake. “Amazing how many people come up here early, isn’t it?”

  Before Everett could explode, Ingraham, in the best tradition of his new calling, handed Thatcher a brightly colored guide book.

  “Page 73,” he hissed.

  Thatcher opened the book. There, interleaved in a description of the Cyclades, were three pages of microfilm enlargements. He had to turn to the Ionian Islands for the handwritten English translation.

  “63 Plateia Eugenia,” Thatcher read softly. “Garage near the Church of the Annunciation. Taverna Nauplia . . . This is a list of locations isn’t it Ingraham?”

  Furtively Ingraham looked around. “There’s more further on. Each of these locations is numbered. Go on!”

  Thatcher obeyed him. Then without haste he shut the book and slipped it into a pocket. “Light machine guns, carbines, and grenades,” he repeated aloud.

  The three men sat in silence amidst the growing splendor of the sun flooding the Attic plain. More and more sightseers were trudging up the dusty path to look at the great marble remnants of the glory that had been Greece.

  Ingraham shifted. “That microfilm looks to me like a list of arms dumps in the Athens area,” he said, sounding rather thrilled. “Do you want to tell me more?”

  Thatcher thought briefly. “I appreciate what you’ve done already but on the whole I think it would be wiser—and possibly safer—if we don’t involve you any further Ingraham.”

  Ingraham arose and brushed himself off. “Okay,” he said without rancor. “But remember I’m here if you should need help. I’ve lived in Greece for a long time and I know my way around. Not that it’s any of my business you understand, but arms dumps can spell trouble. Well you two must be hungry. Come on. I know a pretty good little restaurant down here in the Turkish quarter . . .”

  Only after Ingraham had regretfully left adventure for the humdrum of replicating fourth-century inscriptions could Thatcher and Gabler chew over this latest discovery. They watched him pile into his car, sketch a mock military salute, and shoot into the maelstrom of traffic winding through the alley wide streets. Then they removed to a nearby sidewalk café.

  “A list of arms caches,” said Thatcher ruminatively. “Either the left is planning an uprising . . .”

  “Or,” sa
id Everett, “the Army caught them off-guard with their master plan up in Salonika.”

  Thatcher looked at him. Normally he would expect Gablerian denunciations of the left. But no. If anything, Everett was being more than scrupulously fair; he was leaning slightly in favor of his erstwhile captors. Thatcher remarked as much.

  Everett gave his spectacles a good going over. “That is true John,” he admitted. “But don’t forget I have had several extended sessions with representatives of the current government. And besides I have never met a military man—in any country—who could understand anything as simple as a balance sheet.”

  This was deep condemnation in Gabler’s lexicon.

  “At any rate,” Thatcher continued, “for some reason or other, Ziros passed this list of arms dumps to Nicolls. Since then a lot of people have been trying to get their hands on it.”

  Everett was inclined to spell things out. “Yes that’s clear enough. But why should Ziros give it to Nicolls in the first place?”

  “That’s one question we can’t answer until Nicolls gets back,” said Thatcher. “Let’s hope the ladies don’t run into any difficulties. I’m not sure I would have enlisted their aid if I had realized it was a question of arms dumps.”

  “I am quite sure they can surmount any obstacle,” said Everett. “And for that matter Ingraham was sound as well.”

  Somewhat surprised, Thatcher concurred in this general approval.

  “I have come to the conclusion,” said Everett implacably, “that this Ugly American business is another piece of journalistic incompetence. On the whole the Americans we have met compare very favorably with most other nationals.”

  Travel after all can broaden only so many minds. In any event, Everett Gabler’s assessment of the capabilities of Dr. Lorna Jenkins and Dr. Mary Katherine Murphy was dead right.

  Thatcher, Gabler, Chiros, two representatives of the Ministry of Economic Development, Riemer from the Embassy, and various associates spent the afternoon reviewing a proposed change in Hellenus tax liabilities presented to the gathering by Bacharias. Since Greeks were included in the gathering, the discussion grew animated and lively. It could not however camouflage the essential futility of the meeting. This did not surprise the representatives of the Sloan. Everett currently distrusted all other parties to the Hellenus venture, specifically the Greek Government and Makris. Thatcher disliked conferences on principle.

  Not that Bacharias suggested anything but tempered eagerness on the part of his Minister and the entire Greek Government in regard to the progress and health of Hellenus.

  “Onward and upward,” muttered Thatcher disrespectfully under his breath as the meeting finally broke up. Dinner however was simply a prolongation of the conference in the guise of conviviality.

  By the time Gabler and Thatcher finally returned to the Britannia it was late in the evening. In a way, this was fortunate since it presented them with the only genuinely welcoming Greek face on the hotel staff. Lycurgos Diamantis, Assistant Night Manager, looked upon John Putnam Thatcher as a feather in his cap. His own persuasiveness had lured Mr. Thatchos to beautiful Greece. This made him very, very happy. The only fly in his ointment was that Mr. Thatchos was spending so little time on beauty.

  “Ah, the Acropolis! Good! It is very, very beautiful, no! Perhaps tomorrow you drive to Delphi? My cousin, he is an excellent guide.”

  “No? But before you leave . . . no, no letter, Mr. Thatchos. But here”—he made a ballet dancer’s gesture—”here, a message! Perhaps you are waiting? Good. Please to call Dr. Murphy! But what beautiful Greek the lady doctor speaks . . .”

  Dr. Murphy sounded beautiful to Thatcher as well. Her splendidly timbered voice held laughter in its corners. “Oh, good Mr. Thatcher. You know Lorna and I took a little trip? Well we’ve picked up some marvelous trophies. I know you’ll want to see them. Why don’t you and Mr. Gabler drop by for a nightcap?”

  “We’re on our way,” said Thatcher happily.

  Lycurgos Diamantis watched them hurry out to the taxi stand. He valued Americans and the dollars they represented but there was no doubt that they were culturally barbarians. Rushing here and there at all hours—and not interested in Delphi, in Epidaurus, in Mistra . . . “Po! Po! Po!”

  Thatcher looked upon Nicolls with profound satisfaction. This was a tribute to his deep determination that none of his subordinates was going to be a pawn or victim so long as he had any say about it rather than to Nicolls’ overall appearance. Begrimed, unshaven, and red-eyed, Nicolls struggled to make the transition from footsore fugitive in the Greek bush to correct young banker.

  “Er . . . good evening, Mr. Thatcher,” he said self-consciously.

  “You’re a sight for sore eyes,” said Everett excitedly, pumping Nicolls’ hand up and down.

  The younger man swayed slightly.

  “Here,” said Kate Murphy, proffering a steaming cup. “Coffee should help. The boy is asleep on his feet.” This signaled the end of the preliminaries. Nicolls was no longer the missing young hero but again a junior, unseasoned staff member of the Sloan.

  “Dr. Murphy and Dr. Jenkins,” said Everett. “You have been marvelous!” Somewhat deflated, Ken Nicolls sank onto the luxuriant sofa. Both Dr. Jenkins and Dr. Murphy, on the other hand, still sporting exuberantly functional clothing, looked bright-eyed as squirrels.

  “Oh it was easy enough,” said Kate Murphy puffing deeply on a cigarette. “No difficulties at all. Just zipped up to Elasson and went to the store. Of course Mrs. Andreades didn’t really want to hand him over to us.” She cocked on eyebrow at Nicolls.

  He flushed slightly. “She thought you might be part of that gang.”

  “Young man,” said Dr. Mary Katherine Murphy, PhD, FRS and, during her teaching days, a notable disciplinarian, “I know exactly what Mrs. Andreades was thinking—and you should be ashamed of yourself!”

  Thatcher thought it best not to follow this exchange. But by a natural process of thought he recalled an item that should be of interest.

  “Nicolls,” he said, accepting coffee and a glass of brandy from Dr. Jenkins who appeared with the bottle tucked under her arm, “in your absence, you’ve had a baby. A daughter. Both Jane and the little girl are fine . . .”

  “Good God!” Nicolls exclaimed, letting coffee cup crash to the table. “Oh, I’m sorry . . .” With immense good humor, Dr. Murphy produced a large red bandana, performed cursory mopping up, then stuffed the cloth back into her hip pocket.

  “Men!”

  “Now, Kate!” said Dr. Jenkins. “Congratulations, Mr. Nicolls.”

  Thatcher began to regret introducing the subject; young Nicolls now looked shell-shocked. “I’ve got to call,” he mumbled, getting to his feet unsteadily. “Jane . . .”

  Thatcher waved him back. “No, I’m afraid you can’t. We don’t want people to know where you are Nicolls. You’re safe here but we can’t be sure how safe. Don’t worry, I’ll get a message through to Miss Corsa.”

  Dr. Murphy broke in to say that the apartment was quite secure. Old Mattina wouldn’t talk.

  Everett tore himself away from a conversation with Dr. Jenkins. “Perhaps,” he suggested, “we should get down to your story Nicolls.”

  Thatcher was glad to see the young man make a visible effort to pull himself together.

  “To be honest,” Nicolls said, “I’ve been hoping that somebody could explain things to me. Ever since I got to the railroad station in Salonika, I’ve been in a world without rhyme or reason.”

  Thatcher took the guide book from his pocket. “I think I can make a start, if I can’t explain everything. In the railroad station, you fell into conversation with a Dr. Ziros . . .”

  “Elias?” Kate Murphy exclaimed. “How does he . . . oh, sorry!”

  “You exchanged business cards,” Thatcher continued, ignoring this tempting bypath.

  “How did you know that?” Nicolls asked.

  Dr. Jenkins poured ample second dollops of brandy, then observed t
hat, unless everybody refrained from interrupting, the story would never get told.

  Everett radiated approval.

  “He gave you his card. And that card, in fact, contained a microfilm,” Thatcher continued. “That microfilm listed arms dumps in the Athens area.”

  “So that was it,” Nicolls said. “I never knew . . .”

  “Presumably that list of arms dumps was the reason why the Army arrested you, Ziros, and everybody who had spoken to him. They thought they had uncovered a plot to overthrow the Government.”

  “That’s clear. But I don’t understand why they then shot Ziros out of hand . . .”

  Both ladies gave exclamations of horror and distress. “They shot him?” Kate Murphy demanded fiercely. “By God what brutes! Elias was a dedicated idealist. Just a mild-mannered intellectual filled with theories about bringing Greece into the modern world.” Her dark eyes sparkled wrathfully.

  Lorna Jenkins frowned unhappily. “Elias was the last man in the world to have anything to do with arms dumps. That’s the trouble with these colonels. They’re driving men like Elias to extremism. And that’s the kind of man this Government executes! What’s going to happen to Greece?”

  “The military mind,” said Everett. “What you can’t understand, you shoot!”

  If they didn’t get him out of Greece soon, Thatcher thought, Everett would be taking to the hills with a band of guerillas.

  Nicolls, ignoring this outpouring, shook his head. “No, I don’t think the Army did shoot Ziros. And I don’t think it’s the Army who’s been bird-dogging me!”

  “What’s that?”

  “But surely . . .”

  “But why were you arrested . . .”

  Thatcher quelled the ejaculations with a terse: “Explain!”

  Nicolls tried to order his thoughts. “I’ve had some time to think in the past day or two . . .”

  This had the happy effect of diverting Dr. Murphy. She gave an eloquent snort.

  “Kate!”

  Speaking more quickly, Ken said: “First of all, when we were herded together—the shot came from someplace beyond the shed. I got the impression, and the others in that paddy wagon did too, I’ll bet—that those soldiers were just as surprised and scared as we were.”