When in Greece

by Emma Lathen

  “Sure!” Charlie exploded. “Sure! Read this!”

  With real savagery, he thrust the offending radiogram at the chief of research, knowing that Walter would whistle. Walter whistled. “Something must be up! Why should John want a criminal lawyer?”

  “Sure something’s up. The whole bunch will probably end up in the pokey . . .”

  Infuriatingly, Walter rejected this reading. “No . . . no. Not John. And Everett can take pretty good care of himself.”

  Charlie’s cup of wrath overflowed. He launched into an intemperate tirade, embracing flaws seen and sensed in Thatcher, Gabler, Nicolls and all Greeks. On the bird-in-hand principle he began zeroing in on Bowman and the economic research unit. But before he could get there, Walter, no fool, simply waved a cheerful farewell and removed his large person from the line of fire.

  Charlie ground his teeth audibly for the next hour. Humble secretaries walked with eyes meekly downcast. Even IBM programmers trembled. “But he’s usually so . . . so nice,” wailed a youthful stenographer, before dissolving into tears in the ladies’ room.

  “I can’t imagine what’s got into him,” said Miss Carew angrily. She was from Document Processing and an Old Sloan Hand.

  This was not surprising. Reasons for Charlie’s malaise were not however hard to find. In addition to the great Hellenus ordeal, Charlie had two additional burdens exacting a heavy toll on his normally good spirits. First, directing the trust department in John Thatcher’s absence lost its salt, it developed, without Everett Gabler’s abrasive presence. Administrative detail, without side battles and skirmishes, left Charlie bored beyond belief.

  Then too, his keen and commendable sense of responsibility had led Charlie, upon his hurried return from Venezuela, to commence regular visits to the bereft Mrs. Ken Nicolls. This had exposed him to bravery in the face of adversity—not easy on a man of his habits. Fortunately, it had recently been replaced by incandescent radiance, following Thatcher’s cryptic reassurances, which was more up Charlie’s alley. But above all, in sadness and in happiness, Charlie had spent too many hours in a very nice house on Brooklyn Heights with: a young mother, her very nice mother, a three-year-old moppet and a newborn infant. Aunts, cousins, brothers, neighbors and old college friends seemed to drop in, call up, or write with machine-gun repetitiveness.

  At one point, Charlie had been mistaken by a nearsighted neighbor for the grandfather. For a man of his temperament, this was slow poison. “Well, we’ll just see!” he growled, flinging himself out of his office to his secretary’s undisguised relief. He launched himself down the hall on the double. “We’ll just see!”

  Miss Corsa, as was to be expected, did not recognize danger when it stormed into her office. Without a quaver, she interrupted her typing: “Yes, Mr. Trinkam?”

  “Miss Corsa!” he said awfully. “Do you have any news from Thatcher?”

  Miss Corsa, who had her own notions of the proper modes of address for her employer, made an instant and iron decision. “I have had several messages, Mr. Trinkam. They all concerned Mr. Thatcher’s personal affairs.”

  Charlie opened his mouth to expostulate, then collapsed.

  “Personal?” he asked blankly.

  “Yes,” said Miss Corsa firmly. The messages, in toto, were: one an imperative demand for all sizes of all Thatcher’s female relatives. This rankled since Miss Corsa normally provided a list when time permitted. Two an equally imperative demand for all sizes of all Nicolls’ offspring. This in turn had been followed by cabled instructions concerning a sizable anonymous donation to the American School of Classical Studies’ excavations at Mavromidion.

  “Mr. Thatcher,” Miss Corsa reported without complete approval, “seems to be feeling fine.”

  “I’ll bet!” said Charlie Trinkam. “I’ll probably have to go over and get the whole lot out of jail, or worse. He’s up to something! And he doesn’t know those Greeks the way I do. Maybe I’d better get right on over. Talk some sense into them . . .”

  Now, this was the sort of talk that Miss Corsa was not going to brook in her office. She struck, and she struck hard. “Oh, I wouldn’t bother, Mr. Trinkam,” she said, returning to her typing. “I expect that by the time you got there, Mr. Thatcher will have taken care of everything.”

  Then, and only then, did Charlie Trinkam identify his real grievance: he was missing all the fun.

  Chapter 21

  Seven Against Thebes

  In Athens the fun was just beginning.

  “You say you have heard from Mr. Nicolls?” Bacharias asked in astonishment.

  Thatcher looked around the café and lowered his voice before replying. “Yes, he seems to be with some people who are bringing him to Athens. I don’t understand it at all. But you can see why I didn’t want to speak about it at the hotel. Until we know more, the fewer people who hear about this the better.”

  “Ah!” Bacharias could not control the sudden leap of exultation in his voice. But immediately he turned it to good account. “What an unbelievable relief to know that he is alive and safe. You will go to him immediately of course.”

  Sorrowfully Thatcher shook his head. “It’s not that simple. Apparently these people are planning a furtive entry into the city some time tomorrow. They’re going to leave a message for us down by the docks telling us where we can meet them.”

  “By the docks? Then they are coming by sea?”

  “That was my conclusion.” Bacharias chewed his underlip as Thatcher watched appreciatively. The strategists at the apartment in Kolonaki had chosen a sea route after deliberation. Bacharias and his followers did not have the manpower to patrol every little fishing village. Nevertheless, considering the difficulties that awaited a foreigner attempting an escape over water they must have dismissed this loophole as negligible.

  Now Bacharias leaned forward tensely, delicately tapping the table to emphasize his points. “These friends of Mr. Nicolls may well have reason to be secretive. You will forgive me if I undertake to advise you?”

  “But of course! Mr. Gabler and I would appreciate advice.”

  “Then, under no circumstances must anyone discover your rendezvous. You have considered the possibility that you may be followed, I am sure. Would it not be wiser if I went for this message? As a Greek, I would attract no attention.”

  Thatcher permitted himself to be overcome. “You are more than generous,” he murmured. “Mr. Gabler and I worried about this problem also. But we dare not send an emissary in case the message appoints an immediate meeting. On the other hand you are perfectly right that we would look conspicuous at the docks. So we have decided to arrange a sightseeing party. It will look innocent in itself. And it will make it easier for us to slip away if that should be necessary.”

  “A sightseeing party?” Bacharias frowned.

  “Yes. A group of people cruising around the Piraeus. We have already found two American ladies willing to go.”

  Bacharias relaxed. “It should be all right. As long as they do not know the true purpose of your trip. Being followed is not your only problem. These people with Mr. Nicolls will not wish their affairs broadcast. Are they hostile do you think?”

  “No surprisingly not.” Thatcher picked his way with care. “Nicolls spoke in haste you understand. And he sounded near collapse. But he insists that everything is all right now.”

  “Because he has succeeded in reaching you?”

  “Possibly.” The uncertainty in Thatcher’s voice was masterful. “Nicolls muttered something about having helped these men to get back something they wanted desperately.” Thus having raised Bacharias’ hopes that the missing microfilm would arrive with Nicolls tomorrow. Thatcher broke off artfully. “You know we may have to ship Nicolls home right away. He didn’t sound like himself. I’m sure he needs medical attention and a long rest.”

  Bacharias could barely keep the impatience from his voice. “Poor man,” he said perfunctorily.

  “I may have done your excellent Army an injustice,
” Thatcher continued reflectively as he tasted a morsel of the preserves served with his ouzo. “Nicolls may have been an earthquake victim after all. Fortunately not a fatality. But if he has been wandering around the hillside in a state of shock ever since the night of his arrest I don’t like to think of his condition.”

  Bacharias saw a chance to direct the conversation. “Surely if he has been helping people to find something he must be in full possession of his faculties.”

  “Let us hope so,” Thatcher said piously.

  As Bacharias dutifully echoed this sentiment Thatcher noted that the time was five minutes to twelve. He had chosen this table after careful scrutiny. Not as his companion thought because of any superior defenses against eavesdropping but because it provided a direct view of the wall clock. He had promised to have Bacharias at his side in Syntagma Square at noon precisely.

  He signaled for the waiter. “I will not be happy until I have seen Nicolls with my own eyes,” he said laying down bills and rising. “But there is nothing we can do until tomorrow.”

  As the two men emerged into the brilliant sunlight Thatcher scanned the benches in the Square. He almost missed Carl Ingraham. That enterprising young man had taken advantage of his sudden involvement in melodrama by going into disguise. He had done such a good job that he almost defeated the entire exercise. But there he was, elegantly lolling on a bench encased in a white silk shirt and skin-tight pants. With dark wrap-around sunglasses and a cigarette dangling from his lower lip, he was a picture of the complete greaser.

  Thatcher carefully chose his position before extending his hand. Bacharias was forced to stand in unshadowed sunlight directly opposite Ingraham. “I must get back to the hotel now but we will expect you tomorrow morning,” Thatcher said. “If anything develops I’ll let you know.”

  “Please do,” Bacharias replied, shaking hands. “I shall be anxious to hear.”

  And that thought Thatcher is the first truthful word you’ve said.

  In the meantime somewhere on Ingraham’s person, a miniature German camera was rapidly clicking off exposures one by one.

  “Here are the pictures of Bacharias,” said Kate Murphy later that afternoon. “Can you get them distributed this evening?”

  Makris’ famous composure was badly shaken. Thatcher had promised the pictures before three but he had not revealed the nature of the Sloan’s messenger. Probably Makris would have been dismayed at the intrusion of any woman into his plans but he could have fallen back on traditional precedent if he had been confronted with an ingénue or a sleek woman of the world. Kate definitely fell into neither category.

  In fact Makris—presently enjoying his third marriage, this time to a woman 30 years younger than himself—had not seen a woman like Kate in years. Dr. Murphy’s standards required that a visit to a business office in Omonia Square be accomplished in a suit. Such occasions did not arise frequently; therefore the suit was correspondingly old. Its original lines had long since been lost. Now the beige linen fell in baggy amplitude around Kate’s contours. On her feet she wore uncompromising lace-up oxfords, polished to a high gloss. A defeated hat, also linen, completed the ensemble. From beneath its turn-down brim errant wisps of hair protruded.

  The last time Makris had seen anything like this was before the war when he had visited friends in England with a nanny. That nanny he recalled had been retained in spite of her manifest incompetence because of her kindness to small children. The last quality in the world that they needed at the moment. “All arrangements have been made,” he answered mechanically.

  “Good! It’s essential that everybody be able to recognize Bacharias.” Kate beamed at him cheerfully. “And now perhaps we could review the route.”

  “You will be in the party going to the docks tomorrow?”

  “Oh, yes!”

  Makris closed his eyes briefly, his opinion of Thatcher plummeting sharply. Then he opened them and looked cautiously across the desk. He supposed that Thatcher had found her in the hotel. He had to admit that from one point of view her appearance was perfect. She would cast a mantle of dithering innocence over any party she joined. But she was also likely to commit some incredible stupidity that would give the game away. Mentally he shrugged. Well if so the Sloan would pay the price. The only thing he could do was give her adequate coaching.

  “Send in Karillides,” he ordered his intercom. Returning to his visitor he explained: “Mr. Karillides is in charge of the preparations. He will give you a map of the route. In addition he will instruct your driver tonight.”

  Kate nodded happily little knowing that her look of childish pleasure was rousing deep misgivings across the desk.

  The man who came in silently would have been recognized on the spot by Ken. His nut brown face was just as alert as when he had brightly predicted instant death in the paddy wagon, just as eager as when he had been wolfing his stew at the American Friends relief station.

  But that was only until he saw the plump smiling woman in the chair. Then he became transfixed with joy. On her part, she rose and rushed forward.

  “Katerini!”

  “Demetri!”

  They embraced.

  Makris stared. They paid no attention to him but burst into frenzied exclamations, gesticulations, and interruptions.

  “But you are alive! When we left you on the beach, I never thought—”

  “To think that you are here in Greece! Ah, we of Greece do not forget. There are many—”

  Kate said, “And One-Eye? Did he survive too? And Louis the Knife? You must tell me.”

  “And the beautiful Lorna? Is she here too?”

  Not the least surprising feature for Makris was the torrent of demotic Greek that fell from Kate’s lips as she casually referred to people called Costa the Pimp. Finally his subordinate remembered his presence and turned apologetically. “You must forgive us. But it is years since I have seen Katerini. Not since we fought the Germans together.”

  “You see I never knew Demetrios’ last name,” Kate explained.

  “Those were the days,” said Karillides fondly. “And what a fighter was our Katerini. You should have seen her with an Enfield.”

  “I always have had an eye,” Kate said modestly. “I expect it’s all these years of croquet and Ping-Pong.”

  “Croquet! Ping-Pong!” Makris strangled. “Enfield rifles!”

  When Thatcher and Gabler returned to the hotel that evening the night manager, Lycurgos Diamantis, pirouetted gracefully toward them.

  “Ah, you enjoy the beautiful evening of Athens! The floodlighted Acropolis! The Mediterranean sky!” This was not precisely what they had been doing, but it was certainly the first evening in which the two men had felt some of the dark magic of midnight Athens.

  “Very beautiful indeed,” said Gabler tolerantly.

  “You enjoy yourself,” said an ecstatic Diamantis. “Your friends rejoice. Soon you will enjoy yourselves all together!”

  Thatcher paused in his progress toward the elevator. “All?” he said encouragingly.

  “But yes. The friends of Mr. Nicolls call. They ask if Mr. Nicolls is returned. Will he return?” The manager spread his arms in a benedictory gesture.

  “And what did you say?”

  “But I tell them that Mr. Nicolls is not here yet.” Wide dark eyes protested. What else would he tell them? “Only last night he calls from Aghiocampos. But you are in momentary expectation of him.”

  “That must have pleased them.”

  “They were overcome with joy,” Lycurgos Diamantis said firmly. “Even when I say Mr. Nicolls does not sound well. They say that he will recover when he returns to wonderful Athens.”

  It was not surprising that “Mr. Nicolls” had not sounded well to Diamantis. Ingraham who had made the decoy call had been instructed to sound like an exhausted Nicolls. He had apparently stuffed a handkerchief down his throat and succeeded in sounding like nothing human.

  They bade good night to the manager and ascended.<
br />
  “Bacharias is checking up John,” Gabler said as soon as they were out of earshot.

  “Yes.” Thatcher nodded in satisfaction. “And he’s heard just what we wanted him to hear.”

  Gabler reviewed their activities. “Everything’s arranged now. It’s up to him.”

  In uncharacteristic heartiness Thatcher slapped his companion on the back. “We don’t have to worry about Bacharias Everett. He’s taken the bait—hook, line, and sinker!”

  Chapter 22

  When Greek Meets Greek

  Operations began early the next morning.

  “Ah, yes,” said Bacharias politeness barely veiling his contempt. “Yes, I agree that the authorities could not suspect us of anything.”

  Looking dispassionately at their little group Thatcher could only feel for his country. The sightseeing expedition ostensibly designed to camouflage the rescue of Ken Nicolls had been planned, possibly over planned, to a T. The chauffeur, currently speeding along the clogged highway to the docks in the Piraeus, had an itinerary that was paramilitary in scope. At that very moment large numbers of people—from Makris’ international businessmen to certain liberally inclined trade unionists—were setting stages and procuring props. Most important Bacharias was here, sitting next to Thatcher in the Buick. Everything was going along with clockwork smoothness.

  “It is to be hoped,” said Bacharias in a confidential voice, “that your compatriots do not cause us any awkwardness.” Unerringly he had put his finger on an unforeseen difficulty.

  “I agree,” said Thatcher with complete sincerity. The one thing he had not anticipated—and how could he?—was the unbridled zest which Kate and Lorna were bringing to their portrayal of the American tourist.

  “Well, just look at that!” Kate demanded nasally. “Mr. Gabler, have you ever seen anything like it? That man there on the corner! He’s selling those cookies right on the street! Isn’t that picturesque? Oh I wish I had a camera, just to show Wilma! That’s one thing you don’t see in Cincinnati let me tell you!”