When in Greece

by Emma Lathen

  “That should please Everett. He seems to have become pro-Turk during his stay in Istanbul.”

  “I think the Turks are a different kettle of fish nowadays. Not so cunning you know.” As she spoke, Kate took a bowl of Greek olives from the refrigerator and placed them on the table. “Here, try some of these. They’re very good . . .”

  Unhopefully Thatcher obeyed. “Cunning,” he mused. “That’s what we need. Some low cunning to deal with Bacharias.”

  “Did you notice what Ken said about the Army just rushing away when Elias was shot, leaving him there on the ground?”

  “I know it seems harsh,” he said gently, “but they didn’t know who was firing at them. They probably didn’t want a scandal at the station either.”

  “A fine time to worry about that,” said Kate with lavish contempt. “But that isn’t what I meant. I meant that nobody knows that the microfilm wasn’t still on Elias. There’s no reason to admit that Ken ever had it. Your story could be that some leftist rifled the body.”

  Thatcher looked at her with dawning admiration.

  “Or someone else?” he anticipated her. “Someone like Bacharias? You could give lessons to any stray Ottoman.”

  “You do pick up a knack for these things living in the Mediterranean,” she said modestly. “But I have an idea that there’s a germ of something here.” She looked at their highballs in sudden dissatisfaction. Then dismissing such refinements as ice and water, she produced two utility glasses and recommenced operations on a more heroic basis. Serious thought was about to begin. Suddenly, in the background, the percolator started to thump musically.

  “Makris said I couldn’t go on the offensive because I didn’t know my enemy and I didn’t have any weapons.” Thatcher emptied his glass at a gulp. “One of those objections has just been shot to the ground at least. We know our enemy and his name is Bacharias.”

  “I expect he was thinking of a different sort of offensive,” his hostess mumbled indifferent to the new name.

  “He doesn’t have as high an opinion of the Sloan’s Italianate hand as you do. You’re suggesting framing the framer or blackmailing the blackmailer I take it.”

  Kate Murphy seemed to have fallen into a sibylline mood. Behind a handful of olives she enunciated clearly: “To get something you have to give something.”

  “Very true,” said Thatcher sagely. Without conscious thought he replenished their glasses. The solution to their problem was around the corner he could feel it in his bones. He could feel other things too. A sudden clarity of mental vision, a conviction of their superiority to mere circumstances.

  Kate, finding a full glass before her, took a sandwich to help it along. “And you’re the last man to be described as without weapons,” she pointed out. “You seem to have seven ammunition dumps right here in Athens. And nobody knows where they are, except you.” From his height of pellucidness, Thatcher corrected her. “And the leftists, don’t forget them.”

  Kate shook her head stubbornly. “No, if they knew they wouldn’t be so anxious to get that microfilm. Nobody knows but you.”

  She liked the last sentence. She made a little tune with it, which she sang over several times. Nobody knows but you.

  “I think it’s been done before,” she said doubtfully. Thatcher was silent. “Don’t you think so?” she persisted.

  Thatcher was beyond politeness. “Kate!” he exclaimed, throwing formality to the winds. “You’ve done it!”

  She looked at him hopefully. “I have? Tell me how.” Slowly he began to tell her. In the living room the indignation meeting had covered a good deal of ground. Time had sped as they canvassed means of approaching the Greek Government, deplored the narrowness which could try to evade so clear a duty, and promised to bring John Thatcher to his senses on the next round.

  They examined the tale of Ken’s arrest and subsequent wanderings in the desert, looking for tangible proof which could be used to force acceptance on a reluctant Army junta. They were still doing so when the door from the kitchen opened.

  “I didn’t see anybody after I got clear of the truck,” Ken was saying. “I just pulled myself up the mountainside and hid out in that scrub throughout the next day.”

  “Ah,” said Gabler appreciatively, showing signs of his new interest in a classical landscape. “The hills of Greece covered by wild thyme.”

  “Oh is that what it was?” Ken asked dully.

  “Not that far north,” Lorna Jenkins objected. “It was probably juniper.”

  “Never mind that now!” thundered a voice from the doorway. John Thatcher stood there brandishing a bottle of Haig & Haig pinch which he had prudently retained. Beside him Kate stood, her black curls tumbled as she ran a hand through them. They were not actually leaning against each other. Nonetheless they were inclined toward each other in an instinctive search for equilibrium. Their eyes gleamed with triumph.

  “Dr. Murphy and I had a splendid idea,” Thatcher proclaimed grandly. “We are going to hoist Bacharias with his own petard.” As he finished this Jovian pronouncement he paused to take note of his surroundings.

  His troops, all cold sober, were staring back at him. Two of them were mercifully silent. The third spoke for all.

  “Well!” said Lorna Jenkins.

  Chapter 20

  Nemesis

  Contrary to popular myth, great and complex undertakings do not emerge complete from the furrowed brows of their originators. All too frequently the first Homeric insight must be supplemented by such anti-heroic activity as planning, coordinating, reviewing, and even rehearsing.

  So the moment Thatcher and Dr. Murphy looked on truth plain and saw the gods smiting hubris—as Thatcher interpreted anti-Sloan machinations—did not lead directly to thunderbolts, trembling mountains or any other immediate rebukes to the sin of pride.

  Some of the preliminaries, of course, could be attributed to the twentieth century’s and Everett Gabler’s passion for terrestrial detail; others, however, would have met with the full approval of Zeus, himself.

  Dr. Murphy and Thatcher had to be restored to complete sobriety. Yet endless cups of syrupy coffee did nothing to dim the golden prospects. “Of course, it will take careful preparation,” said Thatcher with his customary guile.

  “It certainly will,” said Everett snappily producing a notebook. “But nothing beyond us I trust.” Moral lapses on the part of his confreres always had a happy effect on him. “Now then, if I could have your attention, John—and Dr. Murphy . . .” Metaphorically speaking, everybody synchronized watches.

  Quite early the next morning Everett, together with Lorna Jenkins undertook an important foray. Together, they were en route to a certain villa near Sounion. After consideration, it had been decided that the Academy truck, while undeniably the ideal transport to and from digs, did not quite answer the needs of the moment.

  “Besides,” said Kate Murphy, narrowing her eyes dramatically, “I may need it myself!”

  Lorna Jenkins gave her a sharp look, but said nothing. From somewhere, an aged Buick was produced, with a driver who assaulted Athens traffic and the clogged artery to Sounion like a demented toreador.

  “I agree that we do look more respectable,” said Dr. Jenkins herself restored to urbanity in a black suit that set off her silver hair and sun-darkened skin. “Greeks do set great store on appearances.”

  “Ah yes,” said Everett, peering out the window. After several miles he gave an exclamation. “Here! It must be about here—no, there! By that stone! That’s where I flagged down the tourist bus.”

  Lorna Jenkins relayed rapid Greek instructions to the front seat and the driver, cutting smartly in front of an overloaded bus immediately slowed to a crawl supremely indifferent to the violent protests trailing him.

  “I must have walked perhaps a mile or two,” said Everett thoughtfully. They inched forward. Maddened, the bus nosed out to pass in the teeth of an onrushing truck. Everett remained intent upon the slowly passing scenery while Dr. Je
nkins, who did not have a nerve in her body, reflected that it was just as well that he knew no Greek. The suggestions and observations hurled their way might have distracted his attention. The driver whistled provocatively and shook a fist at the truck driver who was fumbling to restart his engine. “Here!” said Everett with pleasure. “Here it is! This is the path I took, I am sure of it.”

  When Lorna directed the chauffeur to turn off the highway onto the narrow, dirt road, he had a comment. “A cool one the old American,” he said, not without respect. “We must be slow here because of the ruts.” A great bouncing confirmed his words, but in minutes they had covered the winding path to the crest of the hill. A wall and gate blocked the way. “Is this the house you seek? Not a bad place at all.”

  Every impoverished Greek slum dweller is a real estate tycoon when it comes to the property of others. The driver agilely jumped from the car before Everett remembered to warn him about the dogs. Flinging open the gate, he returned and they were soon driving up the gravel path to the front door.

  “Yes this is it,” said Everett with profound satisfaction. He helped Lorna alight and beneath his breath, added: “I see they got rid of the dogs. I suspected that they were so much window dressing. Yes, properly seen this is a nice little property.” This was mild praise for a classic Mediterranean villa perched atop a hill above an olive grove, commanding a superb view of seas famed for their beauty since Pindar.

  The front door opened. Eleni, the aged housekeeper, shuffled out into the sunlight. For a moment, she squinted in surprise at the Buick and at Lorna Jenkins. Then her rheumy eyes found Everett Gabler. With lightning speed, she crossed herself three times, simultaneously emitting a high tremulous screech. Then both arms outstretched, she backed through the doorway and disappeared into the gloom.

  The driver’s already high opinion of Gabler rose. Dr. Jenkins was amused. “Well, she’s alive, at least, Mr. Gabler. By the way, she was warding off the Evil Eye as she left.”

  “In the light of what happened,” Gabler began heatedly when another remembered figure appeared. It was the bald man. No longer stocky and menacing he sagged against the door jamb. His complexion was strangely yellowed.

  “Gabler!” he croaked. “I didn’t believe her . . . why have you come back?”

  “I have a business proposition to discuss with you,” said Everett with calm. He then introduced his companion and suggested they remove indoors. As the bald man simply stood there, he added: “Have you been ill? You don’t look at all fit. Of course, I myself found the diet very difficult . . .”

  The bald man’s lips drew into an involuntary snarl. Then, mastering himself with an effort, he gestured for Gabler and Dr. Jenkins to enter.

  As he found himself again in the cool tiled shadow, Gabler took precautions. “I hope I need not say,” he said as he and Lorna followed their host upstairs, “that many people know of our whereabouts and will take action if we do not return on schedule.”

  “The police?” their host asked wearily. He turned to look down at them, an unfathomable expression in his dark eyes. “You have spoken to the Government?”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Everett, who made no allowances for foreign ways. “If I had told the police or the Government what I know do you think we’d be here? Use your head man!”

  The bald man sighed wearily. “You are right. I am not thinking clearly. But even apart from that let me assure you, Mr. Gabler, you would be in no danger of my attempting to detain you. Rather than have you in my house again I would invite vipers! Asps!” His English failed him and he rounded out the sentiment in his native tongue. Lorna Jenkins promptly translated with the smooth detached fluency of an interpreter.

  “He says he would rather have Turkish pashas overrunning the place. That’s an old peasant saying.”

  Their host brightened briefly. “You speak Greek? Remarkable.”

  Lorna, who saw nothing remarkable in it did not respond, but for a fleeting moment they might have been figures out of the travel agency literature of so many countries. The illusion of people getting to know people was shattered, however, the moment they entered the room which had seen Everett’s earlier interrogation. The sullen young man was not lounging moodily at the balcony window. He was prone on the sofa.

  Upon their entry he opened his eyes. Sighting Everett, he closed them again and commenced what seemed to be a long, deeply felt prayer. When the bald man hastily informed him that the lady spoke excellent Greek he relapsed into smoldering silence.

  “Will you sit down Mr. Gabler and Dr. Jenkins?” The bald man was regaining something of his old manner. “You may be interested to know Mr. Gabler, that Dr. Viarranghos thinks that Stylianos will probably recover—in time. I know you will be relieved as I was. I hold myself responsible, you understand. It never occurred to me that American businessmen customarily travel equipped with quantities of poison on their persons.”

  “I have not come,” said Everett coolly, “to enter into mutual recrimination. Although I trust that this has shown you the perils of indiscriminate kidnapping. And threats . . .”

  From the sofa came an impassioned if weakly voiced, imprecation.

  “Shame on you!” said Dr. Jenkins disapprovingly.

  The bald man, sagging back in his chair, was apathetic. “My country has been betrayed by military imbeciles. My friends are dead, in jail or in hiding—all of them in terrible danger. Enemies have betrayed our plans to restore decency and democracy to Greece.” He paused, shook his head. “Yet, of all the catastrophes God had sent to rain upon us, I am inclined to think you may rank first!”

  Everett was impervious to compliment and abuse alike. Moreover he knew better than to enter into rhetorical contest with an emotional Greek. “The proposition I wish to put to you concerns a microfilm,” he said briefly. “The microfilm contains very detailed descriptions—and addresses—of seven arms dumps in and around the Athens area. Are you interested?”

  The sofa emitted in incautious howl.

  “What is your proposition?”

  “I am prepared—and authorized—to return that microfilm to you, without prejudice, as it were. That is without informing the police, the Government or anybody. Indeed, I am prepared to forget its very existence—which I should be most pleased to do!”

  An outburst from the sofa brought Lorna to her feet. “No it is not a trap, you silly boy. Do try not to be so—excitable! I’m sure it isn’t doing you any good.” Without seeking permission, she went to the doorway and raised her voice in a commanding bellow. Returning to the chair next to Everett she commented: “I thought refreshments would be good for all of us if we’re going to talk business.”

  The bald man was in a trance. With an effort, he roused himself. “What . . . oh, no! Although I am afraid Eleni is too frightened to . . . never mind. Mr. Gabler, you say you will restore this microfilm to us? Why?”

  “Because I want something in return,” said Everett frankly. “I want your cooperation to trap the man who kept you from getting the microfilm in the first place. A man who has been playing a deep game of his own—and using you and the Sloan as cat’s paws.”

  “And,” Lorna Jenkins added, lighting a cigarette efficiently, “the man responsible for Elias Ziros’ arrest.”

  From the couch Theo anathematized the present Greek regime. “Army pigs!” he groaned weakly. “To butcher such a man as Dr. Ziros!”

  Automatically Everett bent a warning glance on Dr. Jenkins; they had already decided it might be dangerous to identify the real murderer of Dr. Ziros in this company.

  Dr. Jenkins needed no reminders.

  “Elias was a great loss,” she said in formal condolence.

  It had begun to dawn upon the bald man that this middle-aged American lady was not quite what she seemed.

  “Did you know Elias?” he asked suspiciously.

  “At Argyrocastro,” said Lorna Jenkins, puffing furiously to get a kindle.

  Everett was the only one at sea, but ev
en he realized that this placed Lorna and Elias Ziros on the same side—the gallant side—in a last great display of Greek courage.

  The bald man shrugged again this time indicating capitulation. “But this cooperation,” he asked with open alarm. “What Mr. Gabler, do you mean by cooperation?” Clearly he was envisaging mass poisoning of some sort. Everett too experienced to reveal triumph drew out a fat notebook.

  By the time the ex-seminarian entered with a sumptuously laden tray, the three men—including the late invalid—were hunched over the desk. The two Greeks were shouting furiously. Everett was saying: “Now, if you two would simply listen for a moment!”

  Looking up Lorna saw bewilderment. In Greek, she directed the ex-seminarian to deliver the refreshments to the desk. Then with an appraising look at his muscular bulk she added: “You’d better stay too. You look like the sort we can use.”

  Several thousand miles and many time zones away, Charles Trinkam, currently deputy chief of the trust department of the Sloan, was casting about for a suitable outlet for frustration. He was reading yet another cable from John Putnam Thatcher:

  INFOSEEK CARRUTHERS CRIMLAW ATHENS

  Now what the hell, Charlie irately demanded of his empty office, would a staid Wall Street lawyer like Carruthers know about Greek ambulance chasers? And what the hell was John up to? Charlie took an unsatisfactory turn around his desk reviewing the many things that were all wrong. First, last and apparently always was this murky Hellenus mess. Nicolls disappears. Everett disappears. Everett returns. Nicolls returns. Or does he? Charlie Trinkam stuck in New York didn’t really know.

  All he knew was that Walter Bowman was beginning to get to him. “Any news today?” boomed a cheerful voice from the doorway as Walter paused on his way to his own office.