Decision at Delphi

by Helen Macinnes

  Elias moved into the next room and closed its door quietly but firmly behind him.

  “Now,” the Colonel said, shaking off the full inch of ash from his cigarette, rising, “there seems little time left to discuss what I came here to arrange. But after Mr. Strang’s news, I’m afraid no discussion is possible. We shall just have to accept Mr. Pringle’s idea of how to keep Miss Hillard safe.”

  Strang said quietly, “I hope it coincides with mine. When is the first plane to Rome? Bob, will you see Cecilia safely—”

  “Ken,” Cecilia said, “you know that will only double your own danger to send me out of Greece. I told you before, I just won’t—” She halted, and turned away.

  The Colonel looked surprised, and then relieved. “Miss Hillard is right,” he said, and put out his half-finished cigarette. “One must never admit to the enemy that one is vulnerable. Or he will strike where he thinks he really has found a weakness.”

  Strang said, “He knows where I’m vulnerable.”

  “Are you sure? That note to Miss Hillard could have been a test, a probing action, to find out whether she did know the name of Katherini.”

  Strang looked angrily at Colonel Zafiris. Then he knew that the Colonel had thought of several other things, too. The mass kidnapping of children, the taking of hostages, these were a part of history that the Colonel wasn’t likely to forget. But one must never admit one’s worst fears, either: was that it?

  “We shall keep Miss Hillard safe,” the Colonel promised him. He turned to say good-bye to Cecilia. “Just one more day,” he told her gently. “It isn’t too much to ask of you? One day of patience, of great caution. And by tomorrow night, so much will be explained to our enemy in three little newspaper paragraphs that I think he will have no other alternative but to eliminate himself.” He took her hand and bowed over it. “Entirely,” he added very softly.

  He gave Strang a very firm handshake. “Your driver will be Costas. Elias will be your interpreter.” And then, as he foresaw an objection to that, “No, no! I cannot let you go alone. Not while I still have two questions unanswered: who made that telephone call; and if it was Myrrha Kladas, then who paid for it? She has so little money, so little of anything—” He clapped Strang’s arm twice, strode to the door saying over his shoulder, “I’ll see you downstairs, Pringle. We must not disappoint Mr. Christophorou, must we?” He gave a quick glance into the corridor. All must have been well. The door closed behind him.

  “Did you hear that?” Pringle asked worriedly.

  “He’s going to the reception.”

  “Because Christophorou will be there,” Pringle said, shaking his head.

  “A war of attrition, seemingly.” But who paid for the telephone call? The Colonel had made a good point: such telephone calls cost money.

  “It just doesn’t seem possible,” Pringle said. “Christophorou—I mean. The Colonel’s really tying him up with Drakon? But that’s fantastic!”

  “The hell with Drakon. What’s your bright idea?”

  Pringle, still excited by the feeling that he was standing on the verge of something really important, looked blankly at Strang.

  “About Cecilia,” Strang said. “And it had better be the brightest idea you ever had.”

  “Oh, it’s quite simple,” Pringle said modestly. “Miss Hillard stays at our apartment until the alarm is over. Effie will keep her company, there, all tomorrow. The Colonel will have a couple of watchdogs outside.” He grinned. “And if that isn’t enough to please you, I’ll get a handsome young marine to come and play pinochle with the ladies.”

  “Very funny, very funny,” Strang said grimly. “So that takes care of Thursday.”

  “And then you’ll be back here.”

  “And if I’m delayed?”

  “Then we’ll keep Miss Hillard. Effie will take her around, show the enemy she has friends. Part of this vulnerable doctrine the Colonel was talking about is simply that you are both strangers in Athens.”

  Strang looked at Cecilia. “Well?” he asked.

  Her eyes met his. Slowly, she said, “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

  “That’s the girl,” Pringle said. “Throw a toothbrush into your overnight case. I’ll go downstairs and fraternise. I’ll tell Effie it’s all set. I’ll come back here just before seven, and smuggle you out. Right?”

  “Pack now,” Strang said to Cecilia.

  “But Elias is still telephoning.” She crossed over to the bedroom door and knocked.

  “That’s okay. You won’t understand a thing he is saying,” Strang called after her. He turned to Pringle, who was just leaving, and lowered his voice. “Bob—there’s something else. Do you know anything about marriage licences or regulations in this part of the world?”

  “Oh, I think the families still try to arrange it, and there’s a dowry, and a six-month engagement, or a year, something like that.”

  “For foreigners, you dope. For us.”

  Pringle’s merriment faded. “Are you serious?” He looked at Strang. “By God, you are! Well, well—” He shook Strang’s hand warmly. “Full of surprises, aren’t you?”

  “Find out all the regulations. Get the routine straight.” Nowadays, everything, everywhere, had to be signed in triple quintuplicate.

  “Be glad to. That’s one good piece of news today.” He was still a little bewildered but honestly delighted. Nothing seemed to please a married man more than to see a holdout bachelor joining him.

  “Don’t spread it around, meanwhile.”

  “No,” agreed Pringle thoughtfully. “No. Not yet.” More briskly, he added, “Cheer up, Ken. Another day to wait before the axe falls. That’s all. And we can all stop worrying about being vulnerable.” And you are the worst off, of us all, he thought, and looked away. “I hear Ottway has gone chasing off to Cyprus.”

  Strang stiffened. “I meant to tell the Colonel—Bob, you’d better do it, and fast. Yorghis is heading for Yugoslavia.”

  “Now, now,” Pringle said soothingly, “that little headache was stopped. Early this morning, just as he was leaving to pick up two journalists at their hotel.”

  “Did he talk?”

  “Certainly. There’s a big difference between being arrested for using his firm’s car on false pretences and being considered part of a lethal conspiracy. So he is clearing himself by telling as much as he knows. The people who hired him to drive them to Athens from Nauplion were Cypriots, he said, and he only thought he was being a patriot in helping them. Most disarming But he did one useful thing, without knowing it. He directed our attention to Cyprus. There’s a celebration there tomorrow, you know: general rejoicing over independence, next year.”

  “And did he have any camera, when he was arrested?”Pringle looked at him curiously. “Camera?”

  “The one he borrowed from Caroline Ottway to take to Yugoslavia.”

  Pringle’s bland look had gone. “Who told you that?”

  “Caroline Ottway.”

  “Does Ottway know?”

  Strang shook his head.

  Pringle’s dazed moment vanished. “I’ll see the Colonel,” he said, exchanged a grim look with Strang, and left.

  Cecilia heard the door close behind Pringle, and she came back into the pink sitting-room.

  Strang swung around to face her. “Packed and ready?” he asked her.

  She nodded. There was so much to say, so little time. “I still wish I could come with you—”

  “No,” he said gently, “no.” He held out his arms, and she went into them, and they stood there, holding each other, his cheek against her hair. “Later, we’ll go to Sparta. Properly. We’ll see it together. No one to—” he looked up with annoyance to see Elias at the bedroom door, and his voice sharpened—“keep butting in.”

  In spite of herself, she laughed. She drew away.

  “Everything arranged?” asked Strang crisply.

  “Yes,” said Elias. “You will need a coat. In Sparta, a sudden freshening is to be feared.
” He looked at them, wondered why their faces had turned so strangely expressionless. He hesitated. He must go downstairs, for there would be some last instructions to be received from the Colonel; there always were. But they might think him impolite to leave them like this. He took a step toward the door, glanced quietly at his watch. Time was running out. “Lock the door,” he told them. “Much safer. Yes?”

  “Yes,” said Strang.

  Elias heard the key turn in the lock, and there was laughter, too. They probably thought such a precaution was stupid, but they were so careless of everything when they were together. Separate, the American was alert, a capable man, no fool—Elias had watched him this morning, most carefully; and the young lady was not one of those hysterical, nonsensical creatures— he had watched her as she moved around the bedroom, first locking up her cameras inside her largest suitcase, choosing a small one to take with her, packing neatly, decisively. But when they got together, they noticed nothing, their minds had left them, anything could happen. Westerners, he decided, were totally incomprehensible. Or perhaps the truth was that they were all a little crazy, living as they did in a child’s world of indulgence and pleasure, out of touch with reality. Did they really believe that life owed them happiness?

  Pringle was the first to return. He knocked gently, waited, knocked again, said, “It’s Pringle” in an angry whisper.

  Strang let him in. “You’re early.”

  Pringle’s annoyance melted. “Is Miss Hillard ready?”

  “Just about.”

  “Sorry to burst in like this. But we couldn’t have a better chance to slip away. Caroline Ottway came to the reception. Guess who backed her into a nice corner of palm trees?”

  Strang, who had scarcely been listening, looked at him sharply.

  “Christophorou. They’re having a very pleasant chat.”

  “Good God!” Strang said slowly.

  “Exactly,” said Pringle. “My sentiments exactly. As for the Colonel’s! I had a moment with him, by the way. Yorghis had no camera when he was arrested. Must have already passed it over to his friends. He will have a good deal of explaining to—” He turned as he heard Cecilia’s light footsteps. For a moment, he stood looking at her. Every now and again, he was thinking, you see beauty like this, and it is always a new surprise, something of a shock, a paralysis. He glanced at Strang. “We’d better push off,” he said, suddenly hating this job. “Ready?” he asked Cecilia unnecessarily, and took charge of her coat and small case. “Effie is bringing the car around to the door.” He glanced at his watch. “We’ll have to hurry. I’ll ring for the elevator.” He nodded to Strang and hurried out.

  Strang took Cecilia in his arms. “I’ll telephone you tomorrow. Stay at the Pringles’ until I get back. I’ll try to make it by tomorrow night.”

  “Take care,” she pleaded. “Please, Ken!”

  “I always take care.” He kissed her. Soft lips, soft hair, soft cheeks, white throat. Abruptly, he let her go and opened the door. He glanced out into the corridor. Pringle was at the corner near the elevator, waving impatiently. Strang looked at her. She reached up and gave him a long kiss. And then she was hurrying toward Pringle.

  Strang took a few steps after them. He halted. He heard the elevator door clang open; shut. Slowly, he turned, and walked back to her room. He went through the sitting-room, into her bedroom and stood at one side of the french windows opening on to the balcony. He waited there until they must have reached the main floor, must have crossed the sidewalk, must be in the car, before he stepped out on to the balcony. Too late, he thought, they’ve gone. And at that moment he saw Pringle’s car, waiting down there for the traffic policeman’s signal. It was turning slowly, gathering speed. He watched it until it had disappeared from sight.

  He closed the windows, and looked around the room. It had become a different place. There was only the faint remembrance of roses and jasmine.

  Behind him, Elias said briskly, “Miss Hillard has gone. Now we go.”

  Strang looked at Elias. He said, “I’ll get my coat.”

  “At seven o’clock and ten minutes, come downstairs. Leave your key at the desk, walk out. Costas will bring the car forward, you get in. He will drive into Constitution Square, around, up. I shall meet you, then. You understand?”

  “Costas—what does he look like?”

  “He will look like a driver. You will know him. He searched you last night.” He stood aside politely to let Strang lead the way out.

  Strang said, “Wouldn’t it be simpler if you just arrested Christophorou, right now?”

  Elias looked horrified. Then he noticed Strang’s expression. “But you are not serious,” he said in relief. He raised one of his thin dark eyebrows, let a gleam of sardonic amusement enter his bright brown eyes, and gestured toward the door. American humour was crazy, too, he reminded himself. “We must wait. As you know,” he added politely. He shook his head, watching Strang leave.

  As I don’t know, Strang thought as he went upstairs. Or rather, I do know, but I don’t believe it. Sure, every contact that Christophorou makes in the next twenty-four hours may lead to wider knowledge about the extent of the conspiracy. Give no warning, arouse no suspicions, take every precaution, and wait: that’s the professional point of view, but I’m no professional. I still think that, one tiger within your sights is worth ten in any blasted thicket.

  In his room, he did a thorough, quick job of locking everything up. His drawings and his brief-case, with so many months of hard research inside it, worried him. And the worry irritated him. Quickly, he gathered coat, toothbrush, razor, map, pocket dictionary. (And, thank heavens, he had cashed that cheque today.)

  Then, at the door, he turned and went back to pick up his drawings and brief-case. He’d leave them at the manager’s office.

  Downstairs, he watched, the manager’s assistant locking his work into a cavern of a safe. He had a moment of disquiet: what instinct had made him so excessively careful? All right, it was done. He accepted the receipt, made small talk about the weather, eyed the clock, and left—exactly at eight minutes past seven—to drop his key at the porter’s desk. He stepped out into the busy street, his coat with its filled pockets over his arm, the well-stocked night traveller in search of his friend. A venerable, dark-blue Chrysler eased forward, halted, and Costas, now dressed in a cheap suit much too tight for him, ran around to hold open the rear door for his client. Strang gave a stiff, embarrassed nod. Willing or not, he thought as Costas slipped behind the wheel, here I go.

  * * *

  Dusk came as they reached the Megara road, and then quick darkness. The broad busy highway running straight out from the city, lined by miles and miles of small flat-roofed houses, square white boxes, each set back in its own plot of Attica’s dry stony earth, had ended. Now they were on a well-paved road twisting along the shore of the Gulf of Athens, past summer cottages, shuttered and silent, built at the water’s edge; past long rows of barrack-like, dimly lit houses, set back on sloping fields, where the small farmers lived literally over their chicken runs. There were several cars on this road, all challenging Costas, whose idea of travel was emptiness ahead, a good engine with a powerful drive, a steady wheel under his hands, and an unbroken speed of eighty miles an hour.

  “Better now,” Elias said, breaking his long conversation with Costas to turn to speak to Strang for the first time. The sloping land was flattening out into a wide plain. Elias looked back at the cars they had passed, their headlights now sweeping away into another road. “They drive out to dinner,” he added, shaking his head. “Nothing else to do but take their women to dinner.” He spoke more in wonder than in envy. Then he gestured ahead. “The canal,” he said, and they were running smoothly over a long bridge. Strang saw, to his right, a dark straight line of water, seemingly endless, laid deep between man-made cliffs, its spaced lights dwindling into a narrow ribbon toward the west. “The Peloponnese,” Elias said softly, and pointed to the dark stretch of hills lying ahead. �
��Once we pass Corinth, we can make speed.”

  They did. The lights of Corinth vanished into the darkness behind them, and now there were only scattered groups of houses strung along the road that led through the hills, villages so small that the car had passed through the string of dim lights before it barely entered them. There was never a village so small, Strang noted, that it didn’t have a room, open to the unpaved sidewalks, with a few tables and chairs where the men gathered together. He saw few women, and they all wore headcloths, the long scarves which they draped over their heads and across their mouths. It was strange to speed so quickly through these lives, glimpse the habit of centuries, see the wide curious eyes turned toward the car or a friendly arm raised, in quiet greeting, under the new electric lights. Then even the villages stopped, and there were only the vast stretches of dark hills, a wide canopy of ink-blue sky with the stars beginning to take their stations.

  They swept past the lights of Argos, lying on its broad plain, and turned west toward the mountains. Thank God, the road was good, Strang thought. It twisted in sharp zigzags up a mountain’s face, straining to reach the top, the sharp drop on its outer side steadily heightening. “A fine view,” Elias said, pointing backward into the darkness.