In consequence, Robbie felt that Luke Beecham was a man whom he could trust, and that in the present matter it was a lucky break for him that the only man he really looked on as a friend should happen to be an expert on oil. In fact, he thought it might even be an indication that Athene meant to help him in his quest.
Beecham was still in his office and, when he came on the line, Robbie asked if he was free that evening. The reply was what he had feared, as Luke was an extremely popular person; he was going for cocktails to the Greek Chief of Staff and afterward giving dinner to an American couple at the Athénée Palace. However, his dinner date was not till nine o’clock and, at Robbie’s pressing, he agreed to leave the cocktail party early so as to get to the hotel at half past eight.
Well before the time of his appointment, Robbie turned out of Stadium Street and walked through the big, glass swing-doors of Athens’ most modern de-luxe hotel. Crossing the lofty hall, he went into the bar, sat down at a table and ordered himself a fresh orange juice with soda and laced with brandy. Ten minutes later, Luke, tall, fair, slim and unmistakably English in a Savile Row suit, joined him there.
When he had told the waiter to bring Luke a double dry Martini, Robbie said in a low voice: ‘The matter I want to talk to you about is frightfully confidential, but I know I can trust you, and—’
‘One minute,’ Luke interrupted, giving a quick look round the bar. It was narrow and not very long, and there were only four other people in it; so if any of them had had a mind to listen, they could easily have overheard what was being said at Robbie’s table.
Luke beckoned the waiter and told him to take their drinks up to the balcony, then he said: ‘We’ll go upstairs. There will be fewer people there.’
On the broad balcony that overlooked the hall, two middle-aged ladies were consuming Turkish coffee and a large dish of cream cakes. No other table was occupied, and when the waiter had set their drinks down on one, Luke turned to Robbie with a smile and said:
‘Now, young man, go ahead. Let’s hear what the trouble is that you’ve got yourself into.’
Robbie gave him a surprised glance. ‘Oh, I’m in no trouble. I wanted to talk to you about oil. There isn’t any in Greece, is there?’
‘No; at least, not in quantities that it would pay to exploit commercially. For the sake of our poor old hard-up Greek friends I only wish there were.’
‘That’s what everyone says. But how about it being there all the time, only up to now no one’s hit on the right way of discovering it?’
Luke frowned. ‘I don’t get you, Robbie. It simply is not there to discover.’
‘You, and most other people, think so. I quite understand that. But you might be wrong. I mean, the Russian boffins are a pretty brainy lot. Look at the way they’ve photographed the back of the moon, and sent people up in rockets. Perhaps with radar, or something of that sort, they’ve found a way to look right down deep into the earth and get to know through different coloured rays about what sort of things are miles below its surface.’
‘Well, anything is possible these days,’ Luke admitted, ‘and perhaps in a few years’ time something of the kind may be invented. But I’d bet my last hundred drachmas that no country has anything, like that yet. You see, new scientific processes hardly ever become working propositions within a short time of their first being thought up. Years of research and experiment have to go into them before they become operational. And in all the most advanced countries there are back-room boys working on more or less parallel lines, so one way and another all of them have a pretty shrewd idea about the things their rivals are trying to achieve. It follows that, if the Russians had perfected a device for doing as you suggest, it’s as good as certain that I should have heard something about it. Even if they had, there are any number of places in which they could try it out with better prospects of making a strike than in Greece. No, Robbie, it’s not on. But tell me, what’s put this extraordinary idea into your head?’
‘A conversation I overheard yesterday, while I was lunching out at Toyrcolimano,’ Robbie replied; then he told Luke the whole story up to his interview with Mr. Nassopoulos that morning.
Luke gave him a surprised grin. ‘By jove, you have got a nerve. Talk about rushing in where angels fear to tread. I wonder he didn’t have you thrown downstairs.’
‘Why should he?’ Robbie asked defensively. ‘I only went to his office and asked him a civil question. Anyhow, he didn’t.’
‘No, and the reason why he didn’t is because you are the nephew of the British Ambassador. You had better not let your uncle know what you’ve been up to, though. He would be hopping mad if he heard how you had taken the bull by the horns like this, or indeed if he knew you had taken any action at all in what is a strictly diplomatic affair.’
‘Do you really think so? I’ve told you how he turned down my suggestion that I should try to find out what lies behind this business, but I took it that that was because he didn’t consider me up to the job.’
On that Luke tactfully refrained from comment. Catching the eye of a waiter who was coming down the broad stairs from the big lounge on the first floor, he told the man to bring them another round of drinks. Then, after a moment’s thought, he said:
‘Anyway, I believe you’re right that there is something fishy about this deal. From the Greeks’ point of view, if the Czechs are mugs enough to ask for something that has no apparent value, they would be mugs themselves not to throw it into the package and accept the Czechs’ explanation for wanting it, without enquiring further into the matter. But the Czechs’ explanation does not hold water. None of these Communist Governments gives a damn for what the masses think of their administration. Most of the time, they don’t even tell their people what they are up to. And if they did it wouldn’t influence the elections, because they are a farce anyway.’
Robbie nodded eagerly. ‘That’s just how I see it. And whatever game the Czechs are playing we can be certain that it is not with the object of doing the Western Powers any good; so I mean to try and find out what it is.’
‘I see.’ Luke took a pull at his second dry Martini which the waiter had just set down in front of him, then shot a swift, sideways glance at his young companion, and asked: ‘Are you going to tell Sir Finsterhorn about this project of yours?’
‘No! Oh no!’ Robbie exclaimed. ‘This is my show, and until I’ve pulled it off I don’t want him to know anything about it. You won’t tell on me, Luke, will you?’
‘Of course not, Robbie. I wouldn’t dream of it. But you’re taking on a pretty tough proposition. How do you intend to set about it?’
‘Well; as I see it, the Czechs themselves are the only people who hold the answer to the riddle. I thought that somehow I might get into the Czech Legation.’
‘What!’ Luke sat up with a jerk. ‘Play at being Gregory Sallust and burgle the place? God forbid! Any papers referring to this thing are certain to be in a safe, and you are no cracksman. Besides, if you were caught you would land yourself in most frightful trouble. No, Robbie; no.’
Robbie smiled. ‘No, I’m afraid I’m not up to that sort of thing. What I thought was that I might get a job there.’
‘A job! My dear chap, you wouldn’t stand an earthly. Why in the world should they take you on?’
‘I don’t see why they shouldn’t. Embassies and Legations often employ staff who are not their own nationals.’
‘That’s true,’ Luke admitted after a moment; ‘and I remember your telling me that you speak several Central European languages fluently. Well, perhaps they might, although I think it very unlikely. Anyway, I wish you luck.’
It was close on nine o’clock, so Robbie stood up. ‘I had better be going now. Thanks for your good wishes and for letting me talk to you. You won’t tell a soul about what I’m going to try to do, will you?’
Luke came to his feet and gave him a kindly pat on the shoulder. ‘Certainly not, Robbie. I’m as close as an oyster about any secret that is e
ntrusted to me. Let me know how you get on and, if there is any help that I can give you, don’t hesitate to ask for it.’
Next morning at ten o’clock Robbie presented himself at the Czech Legation in Sekeri Street and adopted the same tactics as he had at the Greek Ministry of Commerce. He gave his name, asked to see the Minister, Mr. Havelka, and stated that, having no appointment, he was perfectly willing to await the Minister’s convenience by sitting in the reception hall all day if need be.
On his name being sent upstairs, it rang a bell, as before, with the Minister’s secretary. An enquiry came down if he were, in fact, a relative of the British Ambassador, and on his saying that he was Sir Finsterhorn’s nephew he was told that the Minister would see him shortly. A quarter of an hour later he was taken up to the Minister’s room.
Mr. Havelka proved to be a small, dark, bearded man, with piercing black eyes. He waved Robbie to a chair and, in halting English, asked the purpose of his visit.
Robbie replied in Czech that he was looking for a job, and it had occurred to him that there might be one going in the Czech Legation.
To attain his present position, Mr. Havelka had had to cultivate a poker face, but even he blinked at the idea of a nephew of the British Ambassador calmly asking to be taken on to his staff.
Instinctively, his head went down a little and his shoulders up, lest this strange animal should suddenly spring at him. Swiftly but cautiously his eyes ran over Robbie. Concluding that his visitor was neither mad nor dangerous, he stalled for time by asking: ‘What qualifications have you?’
Robbie reeled off the languages he spoke. Havelka’s brain was working like a dynamo. It was used to that. There had been times when, had it failed to do so, he would have found himself being marched off with the barrel of a pistol pressed hard into his back. He suspected a trap, but for once he was in a situation to which he had not got a clue. To gain further time in which to think, he pulled open a drawer in his desk, shuffled through some papers in it, and produced a document printed in Polish. Handing it to Robbie, he said: ‘Please translate that into Czech.’
The document was about the exchange between the two countries of university students for vacation courses. The subject held no interest for Robbie, but he found that he was able to render quite a passable translation of it. While he slowly uttered the sentences, Havelka’s quick, bird-like eyes continued to flicker over him.
The Czech was thinking: ‘He must be an agent. No, he can’t be. Even the British would not have the impudence to send one of their spies here openly to ask for a post. Perhaps he thinks himself a Communist. But if he is the Ambassador’s nephew, that is hardly likely. Yet he might be. It has been reported that our propaganda is having excellent results among young people in England. The poor fools march now in their thousands to demand the banning of the bomb. If he is one of those, we could make good use of him. But how am I to know? Whatever I do, that swine Janos will say that I did wrong. If I send the fellow about his business, I shall be told that I missed a chance; if I take him on, Janos will rail at me for having endangered our security. How I wish that I could consult with Janos on occasions such as this. But no; he refuses all responsibility, maintains his role as butler all day and hands round the slivovitz with a sly smirk, then comes up here at night to pick holes in my day’s work.’
When Robbie had finished the translation, the Minister said: ‘Mr. Grenn, you are a nephew of the British Ambassador, so obviously of the capitalist class and, presumably, not a friend of Communism. What reason can you possibly have for seeking a position with us, which could carry only a very modest salary?’
This was the big fence, and Robbie knew it. For his years, he was remarkable in that he had never told a lie, or at least not more than a minor prevarication. Brought up and cared for solely by two adoring women, he had never had any cause to. Not until quite recently had he felt any urge to break away from his well-ordered life. He had never been forbidden to do anything except over-exert himself, he had never given way to any unbridled desire, he had never known the dread of being found out, or had any special secrets to keep. But after he had left Luke Beecham the previous evening, he had realised that he would never get anywhere with the Czechs unless he was prepared to lie to them.
It was more the strangeness of having to do so, rather than any definite moral scruple, that made him reluctant to abandon his habit of replying frankly to any question put to him. Yet he realised that he must and, recalling a story that Sir Finsterhorn was fond of telling about Sir Winston Churchill fortified him in his determination.
The story was to the effect that, during the war, the Prime Minister was asked to approve a scheme which, by deceiving our enemies, would bring pain and grief to them. Naturally, he expressed himself in favour of it and, as it required coordination at the highest levels, he enthusiastically took charge of it himself.
The plan required that certain false information should be disseminated on the Continent, by means of broadcasts. Of these there were two kinds: those issued in numerous foreign languages by certain Intelligence departments, and those in English which were the normal News Bulletins of the B.B.C. The first had a basis of truth, but at times included lies deliberately calculated to mystify and mislead the enemy; on the other hand, it had definitely been laid down in a directive to the B.B.C. that its News Bulletins, on which the captive peoples of Europe had come to rely so greatly, should tell the truth, and nothing but the truth.
A high executive of the Broadcasting Services was ordered to attend a midnight War Cabinet meeting. With graphic gestures, the great Prime Minister outlined the plan, and told the visitor what was required of him.
Perhaps someone on the P.M.’s staff had blundered and had produced the wrong man. At all events, as the visitor listened to the forceful phrases directed at him, he grew paler and paler. At length he burst out:
‘But, sir! To do as you suggest would be entirely contrary to our established policy. You cannot possibly ask me to tell lies like this.’
For a moment the Prime Minister stared in amazement at the poor wretch. Then he turned to those about him and cried in ringing tones: ‘What is this? Am I confronted with a man who refuses to lie in the service of his country? Take him away! Take him away! Never let me see his face again.’
Sir Finsterhorn always concluded this story by saying that it was, no doubt, apocryphal, but Robbie had a passionate admiration for Sir Winston and liked to think that it was true. In any case, it had registered deeply in his slow mind a conviction that to lie on behalf of one’s country was a matter for praise rather than blame. In consequence, he now set about doing so in no uncertain manner.
Having thought out carefully beforehand what he should say, he told Mr. Havelka that he had quarrelled with his uncle on political grounds and that, on learning of his leanings towards Communism, Sir Finsterhorn had thrown him out of the house. He added that he had a little money, but not much; so must quickly find a job to support himself. As his only asset was a thorough knowledge of Central European languages, he was hoping to find employment and congenial companionship in the Legation of one of the Communist countries.
By this time, the Minister had convinced himself that there was little to be feared from Robbie. Honesty radiated from him, and he was obviously a simple type of not very high intelligence. But he could speak Czech fluently, so should be capable of performing some not very exacting job of work. It struck Havelka, too, that it might even be counted as a feather in his cap to have, as he would put it to his superiors, suborned the nephew of the British Ambassador and be making use of him.
Pulling thoughtfully at his little beard, he said: ‘I sympathise with your situation, Mr. Grenn. To be deprived of a comfortable home on account of your political opinions is certainly hard. Yes, I would like to help you. Return here at ten o’clock on Monday morning. By then I think I will have found some employment for you.’
Two minutes later Mr. Havelka was striving not to wince as his hand was
pressed in an iron grip by a beaming Robbie. Lightheartedly, Robbie ran downstairs and went out into the street.
It was another pleasant day; so he crossed the road, and went into the park. Even in spring the flowers there were indifferent, and during summer it was an arid waste; but as it was only a few hundred yards from the British Embassy Robbie often went for a stroll there in the morning.
He had just reached the big pavilion near the centre of the park when a sudden thought struck him. When telling the lies he had concocted to Havelka he had said that his uncle had thrown him out of the house. What if the Czechs discovered that was not true? They would then certainly believe him to be a spy, and his very successful morning’s work would have been entirely wasted. Still worse, in future, as far as the Czechs were concerned, he would be a marked man; so what hope would he then have of succeeding in the task he had set himself?
As swiftly as the deflating of a pricked balloon, the elation he was feeling drained away from him. With his hands in his trouser pockets, with downcast head, he strolled on until he reached the southern end of the park. Crossing the road, he entered the grass enclosure that contains the remains of the vast Olympieion. Sitting down on a fragment of one of the mighty fallen pillars of the Temple, he strove to think things out.
After half an hour he decided that there was only one thing for it. He must leave the Embassy and go to live in an hotel.
That day Sir Finsterhorn was giving a lunch party, and it was after three o’clock before the last of his guests had departed. The moment he had courteously bowed them away he made for his sanctum. Robbie followed him, paused in the doorway, and said:
Mayhem in Greece Page 6