Decision at Delphi

by Helen Macinnes

  Strang stared at him unbelievingly.

  “A woman called Maria,” the Colonel said.

  “Maria?”

  The Colonel nodded.

  “But Maria helped her escape. Maria—”

  “—was only obeying orders throughout. The girl had come under suspicion. Her escape to Erinna Street was permitted so that she could be followed, so that her associates could be traced. The trouble about conspirators is that they must always look for counter-plots; they find it hard to believe that one girl, alone, might rebel and act. A brave girl. Not brave enough to give testimony in public against her aunt—that was the real reason she ran away, of course. But, still, very brave.”

  I was so sure, Strang thought, I was so sure she would get away safely. He said, “She was worried about Maria. She went back to that house to help Maria.”

  “That could be the reason she gave herself, and a good reason it was. But behind the reason we give, there often stands the reason we do not acknowledge.” The Colonel’s eyes dropped down to the two sheets of paper he was inserting into the proper folder. He was impatient to proceed with something other than Kriton Street. Now—” he began, and stopped as he looked up at the American. “Mr. Strang,” he said sharply, “the girl would have died in that chair in any case. Perhaps it was a mercy to her that we arrived so soon after she entered that house.”

  Strang nodded. But he couldn’t get rid of his feeling of guilt. Get rid of it? It was growing with each second.

  “I think you ought to know that the raid was successful,” the Colonel said quickly. “Five people were arrested, including the man who stole the Kladas documents from my office.—Oh, no, not this office, Mr. Strang!—He is a Bulgarian, answers your description of Boris very nicely. Oh, such innocence! Such delightful ignorance of everything. But then, he does not know that we watched him hand over the stolen envelope last night just after the theft. In a coffee-house.” The Colonel enjoyed that picture. Then he went on, “This morning, such innocent tradesmen delivered the household supplies! A most successful raid.” He looked at Strang and seemed puzzled. “Her death is not meaningless. Already, it is partly avenged.”

  “She would never have been under suspicion if I had not told Christophorou about her,” Strang said angrily. “I’m to blame. I told him. Damn him to hell. I told him about the girl in Perspective’s office, on the ship—” His eyes met the Colonel’s.

  “Who else knew? Your editor in New York. Stefanos Kladas. Who else?”

  “I told Miss Hillard.”

  The Colonel raised an eyebrow. “Do you know her so well?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought you only met her yesterday,” the Colonel suggested politely.

  “You didn’t ask how long I had known her.”

  “Ah!” There was a slight pause, a humorous pursing of the lips. “I don’t think Miss Hillard can be blamed. Who else was told?”

  “No one.”

  “Which leaves—” The Colonel’s hands dropped to the desk.

  “Yes,” said Strang slowly.

  “So, at last, you do not find my doubts about Alexander Christophorou exaggerated.” The Colonel shook his head unbelievingly. There, just when he had given up all hope of getting the American to admit his doubts openly, it had happened. Suddenly. By the death of a girl... Strange keys turned the lock in a man’s subconscious mind.

  Strang said with painful honesty, slowly, still unwillingly, “I have had my doubts. But no positive proof. And—well, it’s hard to believe.”

  “Because a gallant stranger took you to see the Acropolis under shellfire? The romantic gesture—yes, that is always appealing.”

  Strang flushed. “I’ve sweated that nonsense out of my system in the last twenty-four hours. No. What, I can’t believe is—” He paused. “How could a man who saw his family forced into a death march ever join the people who seized them as hostages? That just doesn’t make sense.”

  “He was already allied with them. You saw the photographs.”

  “But—” Strang fell silent.

  The Colonel watched him curiously. Americans, he thought, live in a simple world of good and bad, every man considered good until he was caught, actually caught, flagrante delicto if possible. In a moment, he envied that world, so comfortable, so pleasant. And then he didn’t envy it: too vulnerable, too easy for any dedicated enemy to smash it to pieces. Perhaps Americans did not believe in the dedicated enemy, either. Yet they admired Shakespeare, some of them at least: did Othello leave no sense of disquiet, was Iago simply an odd phenomenon, an unpleasant quirk of a dramatist’s imagination? Some admired Aeschylus, too, he had heard: did the intellectuals who applauded the Agamemnon think that Aegisthus was only quaint fiction? Or Atreus himself—was his evil simply a part of barbarous prehistory? Progress made evil antiquated. Was that the assumption?

  The Colonel, sighed. “Must Alcibiades be understood in order to be believed? He did exist, my friend, understood or not understood. And, as you Americans say, he couldn’t have cared less.”

  “But didn’t Christophorou feel revulsion?”

  “Revulsion from everything, perhaps. From the stupid democrats, who were so incompetent, or lazy, or quarrelsome, that they couldn’t see danger until it swallowed them up. From the stupid fascists, who bullied and murdered. From the stupid Communists, with their obsessive hates, their blind obedience. Revulsion from all of them. Many men have felt it. Complete disillusion, bitterness, contempt. Life is absurd, meaningless.” The Colonel’s broad, capable hands gathered the folders on his desk into neat order, boxed them into an exact square. “But few men have followed existentialism to its logical conclusion. Which is—” The Colonel looked up and caught Strang’s eye. “Ah,” he said, “I see you are not ignorant of nihilism.” His heavy, oval face, with its drooping eyelids, its full lips drawn into a severe line under the thick black moustache, its strong eyebrows no longer arched but knitted straight by the deep crease between them, stared impassively at the American. “I think we have one of those few, right here in Athens,” he ended, his voice harshening. He scraped his chair back from the table and rose.

  Strang rose, too. “There are two legs now,” he said.

  “The Duval woman and Nikos Kladas?” The Colonel’s hand brushed that idea aside. “Stalinists, both of them, with a taste for terrorism. They formed a Committee of Three with Drakon, to organise this conspiracy. It is an old pattern, that Committee of Three, with the two Communists taking over as soon as the third man’s usefulness is ended. It happened throughout our civil war. But Drakon knew how they worked: he was a Communist himself then. Last night, he acted first. The sole power is now his. Why did he choose last night? Because tomorrow is the day that the first blow is struck.” The Colonel turned and pointed to the map of Greece on the wall behind him. “There!” he said. “Just across that northern boundary, in Yugoslavia, the trouble will start. An assassination, and the seizing of power by the Stalinists. Then false charges, with specially prepared proof, that Greece is responsible. Border incidents will develop. And then—” the Colonel’s hand swept south into Greece—“attacks. Trouble will come from the Bulgarian border, too. From Albania. The Greek Communists are there, ready. And they will have considerable assistance, this time. In 1944, the Russians had no tanks or guns to spare.” He stared at the map. “Is this why the Duval woman joined Drakon? Was this the gamble?” With his finger, he drew one last line over the map, from the Baltic and East Germany down through the heart of Europe to the Adriatic, sweeping around Greece to end at the Dardanelles.

  He swung back to face Strang. “So carefully planned, this one. But its two Communist leaders are dead. And all the control is now in the hands of the nihilist.” Suddenly, surprisingly, he was amused. “That is a new development, at least. In Spain, the anarchists were machine-gunned in their rest camps by their Communist comrades. They ought to have had a nihilist in charge to protect their interests. An anarchist is all emotion and no brain. He n
eeds someone like our nihilist, the elusive Mr. Drakon, all brain, no emotions.” His sardonic mood was over. Grimly now, he ended, “But the conspiracy won’t succeed. Not this time!”

  “There is still Drakon,” Strang reminded him.

  The Colonel reached into his desk drawer and took out a revolver. He laid it on top of the pile of folders. “Is this gun dangerous?” the Colonel asked softly.

  “If it is loaded.”

  “Potentially, yes. But actually, no. Not until someone picks it up and puts his finger around the trigger and points it. Like this!” The Colonel picked up the revolver. “That’s all right, Mr. Strang. I shall try not to shoot you.” He had a smile in his eyes. Then quickly he unloaded the revolver, laid the six bullets on the table. “Now, if I were to pick up this gun and put my finger around the trigger? Yes, indeed, I’d look very very foolish. And I would be harmless. Until I found more ammunition and loaded it once more.” He began loading, and then dropped the revolver back into place. “A conspiracy is very much like that gun. Drakon will pull the trigger, but the gun is empty. We have removed the bullets, Mr. Strang. The assassination will not take place, simply because there will be no one to murder. The intended victim will not attend. He will be some two hundred miles away, and his change in plans will only be announced just at the time he was supposed to die. In this way, his police will be able to draw a tight net around their conspirators.”

  “That should be easy. They will find them grouped hopefully in front of their radios.”

  “And meanwhile,” the Colonel went on, ignoring that light suggestion, “we find Drakon, before he reloads.”

  “Haven’t you found him?” Strang couldn’t resist asking, and then decided to make no more small jokes. A foreigner’s sense of humour was never much appreciated, somehow.

  But the Colonel was receptive, this time: “That’s better, much better,” he said, studying Strang’s face. “You must look perfectly normal when you walk along the street. You do not want your friends to ask ‘What is wrong? What is he worried about?’ Even expressions on a man’s face can be indiscreet.” There was more than a slight emphasis on that last word.

  “I’ll be discreet,” Strang assured him. Is it time to leave? he wondered. He took a step toward the door.

  “You will find your travel agent, Spyridon Makres, most dependable, now that your little Yorghis has been discharged. They were deeply shocked to hear about his activities. It’s a good firm; your journey into the Peloponnese will be made simple and pleasant.”

  Strang looked at him. How had the Colonel guessed his plans? “I thought I ought to go and see Steve’s sister,” he said awkwardly.

  “Of course. And Miss Hillard?”

  “She was going to Nauplion.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes. But I’m not so keen on that idea, now.”

  “I think you had better tell her to stay in Athens, for this week. That would be simpler for everyone.”

  “Tell her?” Strang raised an eyebrow.

  “Certainly.” The Colonel put out his hand and gripped Strang’s in a quick shake. “The Peloponnese is very beautiful in spring, Mr. Strang. The wild flowers cover the hills. A pleasant journey.”

  And then, just when Strang was about to open the door, the Colonel said—as if this thought had only developed now—“By the way, how did you come to be interested in nihilism, Mr. Strang? It isn’t exactly an American preoccupation, is it?”

  “Not exactly. So far, our delinquents haven’t branched into politics.”

  But the Colonel was still waiting for the answer.

  Strang said, “Christophorou talked of nihilism.”

  “He did?” The Colonel had been really surprised, this time.

  “Yes.”

  “Have you any comment on that?”

  I am flattered, thought Strang. My comment?

  “You have a mind that seeks explanations,” the Colonel observed politely.

  “Yes, even wrong ones,” Strang said with a grin.

  “But I am serious.”

  “Well, either Christophorou is so fascinated by nihilism that he can’t keep it out of his conversation. Or perhaps he thought it would scare me off, make me run back to my drawing board and concentrate thankfully on pleasanter things. Or perhaps I wasn’t impressed enough: I told him nihilism wouldn’t work, there were still enough civilised men in the world who would reject it. So perhaps I needled him into defending it sideways.”

  “Or perhaps the excitement of success made him boast a little?” The Colonel pursed his lips. “We make him sound almost human.” He looked sharply at Strang. “Is that your difficulty? You find him too human to be the monster I think he is.”

  Strang said nothing. The Colonel had made an adequate reply, in a way.

  Colonel Zafiris smiled gently. “I am sure I need not remind you that Hitler and Stalin were known to kiss babies and smile on pretty girls?” The acid voice changed. “Be careful, Mr. Strang,” he said softly. “Please!”

  “Very careful,” Strang agreed. He opened the door. Elias was waiting. Strang followed him into the dingy corridor.

  19

  Strang came out of the arcade slowly, stopping to look at a window of cameras, then at a bookshop. He bought a guide to the Peloponnese, a good map of Greece, and a new edition of Cavafy’s poems in translation. But he was careful to buy his cigarettes in the street outside, at one of the innumerable newspaper and magazine stands. (Elias had vanished, but if he was taking any distant interest in Strang’s progress along Venizelos Street, he would approve.) He chose a couple of newspapers, too, and some American, English, and French magazines. The Greeks, he decided as he looked over the incredible display, must read as much as they talked, and drank coffee.

  The sidewalk tables were filling up, although it wasn’t yet noon. When the warm weather came, he had heard, they would cover Constitution Square. Considering its size, that must be the biggest concentration of café tables this side of Cedar Rapids. If I’m careful, he thought, remembering the Colonel’s last admonition, I’ll live to see it. In the street’s clear air, bright sunshine, and general feeling of bustling rush and pleasant purpose, it was easy to smile at warnings, not ridiculing them, not forgetting them, but keeping them to a proper proportion. Besides, the most careful course to follow would be to act perfectly normally.

  Today, he would pass these café tables ahead of him and cut down toward the big coffee-house at the corner of Churchill Street. Men only. Talk and cigarette smoke. He would read, and—lost among the mass of small round zinc tables—think over those last ninety minutes. There was much, as the old Cretan would say, to think about here. Momentarily, he wished he could have a night’s talk with that old boy. And thinking of the Cretan, he thought of Petros and Steve, and of Katherini Roilos.

  A woman’s hand touched his elbow. “You weren’t going to pass me by, were you?” Caroline Ottway asked. She was wearing her jade-green ear-rings today, and a wistful look. A little pale, perhaps, but her soft blonde breathless charm was still gathered around her like yards of gossamer.

  He was startled enough to be quite frank. “I didn’t see you.”

  “You are losing your eye, aren’t you? Oh, do come and sit with me! I’m all alone today.”

  “No Greek lesson?”

  “Abandoned by everyone,” she said, “I feel as miserable as you look.”

  “We’ll have to do something about that,” he told her. The Colonel was right, damn him: no serious thoughts in a crowded street. He sat down at her table—it was on the front row. He must have passed her at less than a yard’s distance. He looked at her bright eyes and thought of Katherini Roilos again, and then forced himself to stop thinking.

  Caroline was saying, “I’m so sorry, Kenneth. It is really hideous.” He stared at her. “George felt grim about it all. He heard about it last night, you know. We were dining at the Pringles’.” She sounded more excited than crushed. Bad news stimulated some people.


  “Yes,” he said. “Hideous.” What was? He had at least three pieces of news that would fit that category.

  “It’s in the papers.” She nodded to the bundle of newspapers and magazines he had laid on a free chair. “What does it all mean? It isn’t so simple as it seems. Is it?”

  Fortunately, the waiter was prompt today, and he could order and quite naturally miss answering. He picked up a newspaper and said, “Let’s see how they treat it.”

  “Page one,” she told him. “Isn’t that significant?”

  He nodded, searching, finding, DEATH OF FAMOUS GREEK PHOTOGRAPHER. He read the small paragraph, reminding himself sharply that he would have to guard against showing the truth; he must remember constantly that Steve was supposed to be dead, that Katherini was supposed to be alive.

  “When did you hear about it first?” she wanted to know.

  “From Bob Pringle.”

  “It’s—it’s just so unbelievable!”

  And how would you know? he wondered; you never met Steve. In fact, I’d be willing to swear you were jealous of his shadow. “Is that what George says?” he asked quickly.

  She looked at him sideways, green eyes still excited, and then seemed to decide he had meant that nicely. “Yes. In fact, he was so worried by the news that—well, he didn’t sleep much last night. And this morning—” she dropped her voice—“he went round to see some friends of his. Greek friends. Intelligence, I think. All very hush-hush and—”

  “Then why talk about it?” he cut in. “Look, Caroline,” he said very gently, “don’t add to your husband’s troubles.”

  “I?” She was hurt, indignant. “And what troubles do you mean?” she asked, curiosity overcoming her annoyance.

  He dodged that neatly. “All men with pretty wives and important jobs must have plenty of worries,” he said. “Come on, Caroline. Ease up on your old man. If he can’t tell you about his work, don’t start inventing problems for him. He’s bound to have plenty of his own.”