by Emma Lathen
Bacharias’ teeth gleamed against his dark skin. “But assuredly. I am a professional civil servant. I have no known political affiliations. I will be as deeply shocked as everyone else. And with Mr. Nicolls in custody, it is only a matter of time before the police trace his movements, discover how he passed the microfilm and apprehend his accomplices.” As he finished speaking, he leaned back in his chair, assurance in every movement.
“Splendid!” said Thatcher cordially.
In spite of himself Bacharias was startled. With considerable enjoyment Ken watched his confidence evaporate as Thatcher continued: “I relied on your being too cautious to associate openly with any political group—especially one that might find itself persona non grata with the present regime. My plans would have to be more complicated if you were an avowed rightist. But no known political affiliations, Mr. Bacharias? This could scarcely be better for my purposes.”
“Your jest is ill-timed,” said Bacharias haughtily.
“On the contrary. By your own admission you knew where this microfilm was; yet you neglected to tell the police. Simple explanations always have strong appeal for authorities Mr. Bacharias. Since you did not assist the police the authorities will reason that it was because you wanted the microfilm delivered as Dr. Ziros intended. Hence, you are a subversive leftist. No Army officer could resist the conclusion.”
“Ridiculous!”
“I think not. For a man of no known political affiliations you have a surprising amount of inside information about leftist activities. As well as a marked disinclination to share this information with the Army. They will notice that you have carefully delayed your story until after the microfilm has been delivered.”
Bacharias gritted his teeth. “An absurd contention! I can explain all that.”
“Possibly. But can you explain away the further proof we will offer?”
“Proof!” Bacharias exclaimed wildly. “How can there be any proof? It is all untrue!”
Ken Nicolls had been waiting for this moment. “Appearances,” Ken said gently, “can be very misleading.”
Thatcher returned to his antagonist. “You asked the meaning of this morning’s charade. If that is Mr. Gabler at the door you will see for yourself in a moment.”
It was indeed Everett. He was fresh from the darkroom and carried a set of photographs, still damp and curling from hasty processing. Everett had had some difficulty escaping from Carl. The photographer had wanted to know if there was any chance of fulltime employment with the Sloan. Banking, he said, seemed to offer more excitement than secluded academics realized. It would be very dull going back to Mycenaean inscriptions after all this.
“Here they are,” Gabler announced. “The enlargements came out in very clear detail. Naturally I have placed another set in safekeeping, along with the negatives.” The final shot was aimed at Bacharias who seemed to be contemplating some mad assault on the limp pile of eight-by-tens.
Thatcher spread the pictures out on the coffee table and directed their guest’s attention to the salient features.
“The men you are embracing in these shots,” he explained kindly, “are two notorious members of ASPIDA. They are currently wanted by the police. And the banner on the wall behind you—it has come out very clearly in the enlargement, hasn’t it?—contains the most warlike of ASPIDA’s slogans. Dear me, it seems to call for an immediate insurrection. Those crates beside you with the cabalistic markings contain hand grenades and small arms. As the police would very rapidly discover, if their attention were ever drawn to these photographs.” Bacharias stared at the prints, unwilling to believe his eyes. Dim memories of the morning’s crowded activities returned to haunt him—memories of protracted exchanges, indiscriminate embracings, anonymous boxes and crates strewn over dusty floors. Suddenly he stiffened and leaned forward eagerly only to sink back in immediate despair.
Gabler watched him in disapproval. He knew what Bacharias was looking for. Did he think that the Sloan was so incompetent? The pictures were works of art. There was no sign of Thatcher or Gabler, Lorna Jenkins or Kate Murphy, or of Makris’ nameless minions. The pinpoint exposure had assured absolute clarity for the principals in each photograph. Behind them ranged dim, unfocused figures suggestive of a faceless crowd.
“That banner!” Bacharias said hoarsely. “It was not in the store when I was there. This picture has been falsified!”
Thatcher shook his head. “It was there all right. True it was mounted on a spring hanger like a window shade and only lowered when your back was turned but it was there. It is there still and the picture is absolutely genuine.”
A small shudder coursed through the Greek’s frame. He made several false starts before he actually enunciated his protest.
“This is absurd. I am a rightist! My friends will speak for me.”
It was Everett who punctured this delusion with his usual precision. “Of course the photographs are eminently satisfactory but the crux of our case would be Dr. Ziros’ microfilm.”
“The microfilm Mr. Nicolls had?”
Gabler became reproachful. “It seems most unlikely that such an object could ever have been in the possession of any member of the Sloan. I mean the microfilm describing a number of arms dumps the microfilm which presently rests in the center of one of your business cards. The microfilm with only your fingerprints and those of these two men—” here he paused to tap the picture of ASPIDA’s desperadoes—”on it.”
Bacharias was white. “You mean—” he paused to absorb the enormity of the situation. “You mean, you took one of my cards and put that microfilm in it!”
“You gave it to us,” Thatcher corrected. “If you cast your mind over the events of this morning, you may remember exchanging cards at quite a brisk clip.”
“My friends . . .” Bacharias began.
“Faced with these facts, your fellow reactionaries will undoubtedly feel there is nothing to be gained by dragging their organization into so unsavory a situation.” Gabler spoke with conviction.
Thatcher nodded his agreement. “It might lead to suspicions that they were planning an armed uprising. I think your friends will expect you to immolate yourself for the cause.” He went on cheerfully. “A moment ago you said criminals were the same, the world over. So are political associates. They find it fatally easy to demand self-sacrifice.”
Bacharias took a deep breath. “What do you want?” he demanded.
“Not much. The Hellenus negotiations as I am sure you remember are due to commence shortly. The Sloan would be gravely disturbed if anything imperiled the future cooperation so necessary to the success of the venture.”
“Ah! Now we see how American business behaves. Blackmailing and coercing government officials to support them!”
Gabler almost strangled in his indignation. “How dare you speak to us of coercion! After I have been savagely assaulted, kidnapped in broad daylight, and subjected to gross incivility.”
Bacharias could not know that gross incivility was a euphemism for brain soup, a dish Gabler did not trust himself to describe with greater particularity.
“I did not kidnap you!” he was stung into replying.
“You were directly responsible!”
Thatcher intervened before they all lost sight of their objective. He was no longer cheerful or good-humored. With authoritative severity he replied: “We are coercing you into implementing your government’s policy, rather than your own, Mr. Bacharias. We are blackmailing you into representing your Ministry as it expects to be represented. It is disgraceful that intimidation should be necessary to bring an official of your seniority to a sense of his duty.”
Bacharias looked at him with silent hatred.
“And I expect the Hellenus negotiations to be a great success,” Thatcher concluded menacingly. “With results satisfactory to all three parties.”
“I have been surprised and pleased at the rapidity with which we have finally concluded the Hellenus negotiations,” said Makris over tw
o weeks later.
They were waiting at Hellenikon Airport for the flight which would carry home the men of the Sloan. The official celebrations, in the form of a triumphal banquet, had taken place the evening before. Now less formal farewells were in progress.
“We were pleased too,” Thatcher said courteously.
“But not surprised?” The Greek financier lifted his eyebrows delicately. “I can only say that it is a pleasure to do business with the Sloan.”
“Now that we’ve started I expect we’ll be working together again.”
“I sincerely trust so. As I said to Chiros this morning when he came in with the news, one can place reliance in the Sloan: No loose ends. No future possibility of unpleasantness.”
Thatcher suspected a non sequitur but before he could ask for enlightenment, Riemer from the Embassy was extending his hand.
“Good-bye, Mr. Thatcher. I’m glad that everything has gone so well.”
“So are we.”
“I thought, for a while there, that we might have some awkwardness when Nicolls finally showed up in Athens. But the police were very understanding weren’t they?”
“Very.”
“Of course, it made all the difference, having the Ministry go to bat for him that way. The Ambassador himself was surprised at the amount of cooperation you got. But I said I knew the minute Mr. Gabler turned up that you’d have no trouble with Bacharias.”
“He was very helpful.”
“He told me at the banquet last night that he anticipates absolutely no trouble for Hellenus in the future. It’s very satisfactory. Well Mr. Makris has offered me a lift back into town so I’ll have to go. We’ll look forward to seeing you in Athens again.”
Thatcher said what was proper then joined Gabler and Nicolls who were taking affectionate leave of Lorna and Kate.
“I can’t thank you enough,” Ken was saying.
“Never mind about thanking us. In fact forget about older women in general,” Kate advised bluntly. “You just be thankful about going home to your wife and family.”
Ken blushed scarlet.
“And Mr. Thatcher,” Kate continued, turning away from her victim, “remember that Lorna and I expect to see you in Princeton next winter.”
Thatcher promised that he would be waiting for word of their return. “I am afraid you may find the remainder of your stay in Greece a little slow now,” he added.
Lorna Jenkins was cryptically amused. “Oh I expect something will turn up,” she said vaguely.
“Come now,” Thatcher said good-naturedly, “you can’t have many friends here who go in for this sort of activity.”
Paul Makris had never been able to bring himself to discuss One-Eye and Louis the Knife with Thatcher.
“You’ve done us a good turn,” Kate beamed at him. “We’ve met some old friends we hadn’t seen in years. Lorna has even found some at that villa of yours.”
Everett who took a proprietary interest in the villa at Sounion said tolerantly that they were not bad sorts when you knew how to deal with them.
“Only one thing bothers me,” he confessed. “We have destroyed Bacharias’ plans for subverting Hellenus. But is the man to go scot-free? Whether or not he actually shot Elias Ziros, he was morally responsible for that murder.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Lorna said shortly.
Everett turned expectantly to Kate. It was she who had called for Bacharias’ punishment most insistently. But she was silent. Instead it was Nicolls who spoke.
“What worries me are those arms dumps. Bacharias could arrange for someone else to notify the police and we’d never know.”
“It’s been a long time,” Thatcher reminded him. “I’m quite sure that those arms have all been moved by now. And as we haven’t heard anything the move must have been successful.”
“Yes. But should we ever have gotten mixed up with those dumps?” Nicolls insisted. “I thought nonintervention was the Sloan’s policy.”
“It is. But in this case we didn’t have much choice. And now as I see a representative from the Ministry heading toward us we had better drop this discussion.”
They were all blandly discussing the Suez Canal when the official rushed up to them. “I cannot apologize sufficiently,” he began. “It was arranged that you should be seen off by Mr. Bacharias as you took leave of the Minister yesterday evening.”
“And Mr. Bacharias has been delayed?” asked Thatcher who was not altogether surprised that cordiality at this point should have been too much for the man. “Then we will assume his good wishes and ask you to convey ours.”
The official flung his arms wide. “But it is not that. You have not heard, then?”
“Heard what?” asked Thatcher with dawning suspicion.
“It is the death of Stavros Bacharias that I have to report. He was struck by a car this morning on his way to the office. Right in Omonia Square. He was dead before he reached the hospital.”
Shocked exclamations greeted the statement. “Such an able man! Your Minister will feel the loss keenly.”
“And in the prime of life!”
“We never expect it to happen to someone we know.”
“The Minister knew that you would sympathize with us.”
It was therefore a very subdued and ceremonial farewell that the official extended, but it lasted until their flight was called. There was no opportunity for any private exchange with the ladies. The three men could only look at Lorna Jenkins’ spare, upright figure in surmise.
But as they plodded across the tarmac to the boarding steps, Thatcher was thinking deeply. This of course was what Makris had been referring to. And he thought the Sloan was responsible! Incredible! Thatcher did not share Makris’ approval of this Greek predilection for extremes. He was he supposed, too conventional; moderation in all things. And the place to find that was 3,000 miles away—on Wall Street. He looked at his two companions for agreement.
Ken Nicolls was following Kate Murphy’s advice. As soon as the TWA jet actually stood before him he had put everything from his mind but the vividly remembered features of his wife and the still hypothetical features of a newborn little girl. He was striding eagerly forward.
It was Everett Gabler however who proved that Greece teaches Man how to live. Everett was standing stock still, at the top of the boarding steps looking back at Lorna Jenkins. Unconscious of John Putnam Thatcher, of Wall Street, and of self, he spoke:
He said in total admiration: “Now there is a woman!
