Mayhem in Greece

by Dennis Wheatley

  ‘Yes. They never seem to have become tired of one another, and they had a beautiful daughter whom they named Joy.’

  ‘Well, I am glad about that,’ Stephanie said, getting up. ‘And now it really is time for us to dress and go up for lunch.’

  Late in the afternoon they had a ramble on their own round the ruins and it was on their return from it that they heard more about the submarine. During their stay at Navplion the weather had been good, so they had spent nearly the whole of every day out of doors. In consequence, they had not exchanged more than a few words with any of their fellow guests. Here, too, at Olympia, they had kept themselves very much to themselves; but there was one English couple who had the next table to theirs in the dining room, and with them they had become on casual conversation terms. The name of the couple was Jackson. He was middle-aged and a partner in a well-known firm of London auctioneers; his wife, a smart and pretty woman, was some years younger.

  As Robbie and Stephanie came into the lounge, the Jacksons were sitting near the door. Glancing up from a newspaper, Mr. Jackson said: ‘Things don’t look too good, do they?’

  Stephanie caught sight of the banner headline of the copy of the New York Herald Tribune that he had just lowered and, pausing at their table, said: ‘I suppose you mean about the submarine?’

  ‘Why, yes,’ Mr. Jackson replied with a somewhat hesitant smile. ‘I don’t know of any other international headache at the moment; but this seems a really nasty one.’

  ‘To tell the truth,’ Robbie admitted, ‘I’ve hardly given it a thought. We heard about it last week in Navplion, but English papers are not easy to come by in these places, and I haven’t seen one for days; so I got the impression that the trouble had blown over.’

  ‘It will,’ declared Mrs. Jackson optimistically. ‘Come and sit down and join us for a drink. Frank here has been indulging in such a fit of the blues since he got that paper that I badly need cheering up.’

  Chairs were pulled round from another table, a waiter summoned and the order given; then Robbie said: ‘I must confess that I don’t even know how the trouble started.’

  ‘Well, there are two versions about that,’ Frank Jackson told him. ‘The Americans say their sub was making an under-ice cruise for scientific purposes. She left Honolulu in mid-March, came up through the Bering Straits, went west well inside the edge of the Arctic Circle, cruising some way north of Russia, and should have come down south of Greenland to New York. But, when passing between Franz Joseph Land and Novaya Zemblya, something went wrong with her steering apparatus; so her course was deflected too far south and she found herself in very shallow water, which turned out to be off the Russian coast near Murmansk.’

  ‘I know nothing about such things,’ Robbie remarked, ‘and my geography is not too good. But it seems extraordinary that, with all those wonderful scientific gadgets they have now, she should have got so far off her course.’

  ‘That’s just the point. Both Franz Joseph Land and Novaya Zemblya are Soviet territory, and the captain of the sub. states that in the ice-free passage between them there was a number of Soviet warships. In the coded radio report he made, extracts from which have since been published by the American Government, he puts up the theory that the Russians have some new scientific device by which the ships of theirs that he passed, and which followed him down, were able to throw his compass out by several degrees. In fact, that they deliberately drove him on to their coast; and that, on learning where he was, he took refuge under the nearest ice.’

  ‘And what do the Soviets say?’ Stephanie asked.

  ‘Oh, they naturally deny that. They say that, following normal procedure, they tracked the sub. down from Novaya Zemblya to see that it did not enter their territorial waters. But it did, and began to snoop round the defences in the neighbourhood of Murmansk. It was only then that they took action and sent out everything they had to head it into the bay, where it is now lying virtually captive.’

  ‘I gathered from an American I met at Navplion,’ Robbie said, ‘that the Russians had demanded that it should come out and that its captain should surrender the ship and her crew to them.’

  ‘That’s right. Of course, the Americans firmly denied that it had been sent on a spying mission and refused. The Russians then did the correct thing and put the question to the United Nations. That eased the tension, as most people thought that, after a lot of talk, some solution would be arrived at. There was plenty of talk all right and yesterday the United Nations gave its verdict. Most of the Afro-Asian countries ganged up against the West, and that gave the Soviet bloc a majority. They say that there is no evidence to show that the sub. was forced into Soviet waters, but the fact is that it is there, and got there under its own power. Therefore, the Russians are in the right in demanding that it should be handed over.’

  ‘Looked at fairly,’ Stephanie remarked, ‘I don’t see how they could have come to any other decision.’

  Mrs. Jackson nodded. ‘That’s just what I say. But Frank gets all worked up and says that is absolutely out of the question.’

  ‘Of course it is, Ursula,’ her husband took her up a trifle shortly. ‘That submarine must contain the fruit of years of nuclear research by the Americans, and by British and Canadian scientists, too. In addition, it almost certainly has in it all sorts of other secret devices for under-water navigation, air-conditioning, guiding missiles to their targets, and so on. To surrender her would be to hand the Russians on a plate the key to all our latest methods of defence. The West would be left naked in the breeze.’

  Robbie fully agreed with him, but the two women stuck to their opinion that the Americans had once again asked for trouble which, whether it was or was not true, was neither here nor there; so, over further drinks, they argued round the subject until it was time to freshen up for dinner.

  Next morning, while Robbie was having his coffee, rolls, Hymettus honey and the little, sweet buns that were always sent up in Greek hotels on the breakfast trays, he again thought over the question of the trapped submarine, He still could not believe that it would lead to war; but there could be no doubt that the two Great Power blocs were still giving the highest possible priority to every activity which might put either one ahead of its enemy, if things did blow up.

  That led his thoughts again to the Czechs and the conclusion to which he had come just on a month ago—that if there were no oil in Greece, their operations could only be a cover for some other project that boded no good to the N.A.T.O. countries. In view of the crisis that was now developing, he began to wonder if he had been justified in wasting the past few days. The site near Pirgos having been completely deserted on the previous Sunday had led him, on learning that the photographs he had taken had been ruined, to decide to wait until the coming Sunday before going there again to take another set. Had he attempted to do so earlier, it seemed certain that some of the Czechs would be about, and, mindful of his escape from serious injury in Corinth, he had naturally been averse to risking another encounter with them. But now, in view of a possible emergency, to find out quickly what they were up to assumed a new importance. By the time he had had his bath, he had decided that, when he went down for a bathe with Stephanie that morning, he would tell her the full truth about his self-imposed mission; so that, if anything happened to him, she could let Luke Beecham know. Then he would tell her that he meant to try to take another set of photographs at Pirgos during the siesta hours that afternoon.

  Half an hour later, carrying his bathing things, he was on his way to the lounge to wait for her. As he passed the office, the porter held out a letter to him and said: ‘This is for Miss Stephanopoulos, sir. Perhaps you will give it to her?’

  As he took the letter, Robbie wondered how anyone could have found out that she was staying at the Spap Hotel, Olympia. Then he remembered that, on their last night in Navplion, she had written and posted a letter that she had told him was to her closest girl friend, asking her to let her mother know, without disclosi
ng her whereabouts, that she was well and happy. In the letter she had evidently said that she was going on to Olympia and this was a reply.

  Glancing at the letter, as he turned into the lounge, he saw that it had an Athens postmark, and was addressed in a bold, vigorous hand. The writing did not look like that of a girl, and it struck him that there was something familiar about it. Sitting down, he turned it over, striving to remember where he had seen that heavy, rather old-fashioned writing before.

  Suddenly he seemed to go cold all over and his big hands began to tremble. He had seen the writing a score of times. It was that of Marak Krajcir, the manager of the Czech Travel Agency.

  20

  No Holds Barred

  For a full minute Robbie sat stunned, holding the letter in his hand and staring at it. During the whole of the time they had been together, Stephanie had made no reference to any Czech except when they had been talking of his own investigation. She had never mentioned Czechoslovakia or any wish to travel. Then what possible explanation could there be for her receiving a letter from Krajcir?

  Having asked himself that question, Robbie’s brain temporarily stuck. Then the awful thought that had come to him when he had first recognised the writing on the envelope returned with renewed force. Could it be … No, that was utterly unthinkable. And yet … how else could one possibly account for her being in communication with his enemies?

  His heart seemed to turn over inside him, and he suddenly felt sick. It simply could not be true that Stephanie was betraying him. Why should she? What had she to gain? She was not a Czech, but was half Greek and half English. Money apparently meant little to her for, on several occasions when he had tried to press a generous wage upon her, she had refused to accept more than one or two hundred-drachma notes. She always said that the holiday she was having amply repaid her for driving him and that it would be time enough to give her more money when she had done some work on his book. Besides, while he did not regard it as remotely possible that she had, in secret, the same feelings for him as he had for her, she had shown great concern for him when he had gone into danger, and had treated him with a warmth of friendship that could almost be said to be affection.

  And yet …?

  After another long minute of soul-shaking agitation, he decided that he must find out for certain. He had never spied on other people, let alone opened a letter addressed to someone else. But unless he resolved this horrible doubt once and for all, how could they possibly go on together? Their lovely companionship, their carefree laughter, those long talks about his beloved Immortals in whom she seemed to share his interest, their planning of things to do that would fill other happy days, those delightful dinners during which he could gaze his fill at her every night across the table—how could they be resumed as long as suspicion of her motives never ceased to nag at his mind?

  Had he been a professional secret agent, he would have gone to the kitchen and given the chef a handsome tip to let him steam open the letter over the spout of a kettle. Then, if his worst suspicions had been realised, he would have re-sealed the letter, given it to her and beaten her at her own game by acting a part while she remained ignorant that he knew the truth about her. But by nature he was far too straight-forward to adopt such finesse, even had he thought himself capable of carrying it off. As it was, the idea never occurred to him, or how he should try to excuse himself if he opened Stephanie’s letter, found some innocent explanation for it, and had to give it to her afterwards. Unable to bear remaining in ignorance of its contents another moment, he ripped it open.

  The letter it contained had neither opening nor signature. It was typed on a single sheet of thin paper and was in Czech. At the sight of the language, Robbie shut his eyes. Sickly, warm saliva ran in his mouth. With an effort he swallowed it, opened his eyes and read:

  N. is pleased with you. Since there was no way in which you could prevent him from taking the photographs, it was an excellent idea to render the film useless by opening the back of the camera. Had you stolen and destroyed the film, that would have revealed that we have him under observation, and he might even have suspected you. As he remains in ignorance of the fact that his visit to Pirgos is known to us, it seems likely that he will make a second attempt to get photographs of our plant there. Now that he is showing a greater inclination to confide in you, it should be easier for you to find out his plans in advance, and it is of the utmost importance that we should be informed if and when he decides to go to Pirgos again, so that we may be ready for him. N. says that as he shows such persistence, we now have no alternative to putting him out of the way for good, and another visit by him to Pirgos would provide an excellent opportunity. As soon as you have anything to report, ring Pirgos 8721. A day and night service has been installed, so at any hour there will be someone there to receive your call.

  Robbie’s eyes misted over. It was really true then. She was working for the Czechs. She might even be one herself. As the letter was in Czech, she must know that language; so the odds were that she was. If so, that would explain a lot of things: for one, her ignorance about Greek mythology; for another, her blue eyes and the fact that her colouring was much lighter than that of the great majority of Greek women—although he had put that down to her story that her mother was English. Then there was the curious accent with which she spoke Greek. He had attributed that, too, to her associations with England, although it was sufficiently marked for him, a foreigner, to have noticed, and it should not have been if she had spent all but her early childhood in Greece. He thought it probable now that her accent was much more noticeable to the Greeks than to himself, and that it was unlikely that she had ever been in England. To tell him that she had been brought to Greece when still a child had been a clever precaution, enabling her to say, should he attempt to check up on her, that her memories of England were only very vague ones.

  But how cleverly she had deceived him from the very beginning. He closed his eyes again and winced as he thought of the way in which he had taken as gospel truth her story that she, a woman of twenty-four, was being forced into a repugnant marriage and that, if he did not take pity on her, she could see no alternative to becoming a hostess in a Piraeus night club. In this day and age, it was so highly improbable that only a simpleton like himself would have believed it.

  As he opened his eyes again, he caught sight of her passing some remark to the page boy, who was holding the door of the lounge open for her. Stuffing the letter into the pocket of his jacket, Robbie stood up. Next moment she was coming towards him, smiling her usual morning greeting.

  Somehow he found his voice and, to his surprise, it sounded quite normal as he automatically made his usual response—hoping that she had had a good night and was looking forward to their swim.

  As he picked up his swimsuit and towel, she remarked how lucky they were that the weather still remained so lovely; then, side by side, they left the lounge and walked down the broad staircase out into the sunshine.

  Robbie’s brain was still racing. He knew now why it was that the Czechs had been waiting for him in Corinth and why, after he had escaped from them, he had found her about to drive off with Barak. He knew, too, why she had constantly pressed him to confide in her. Should he blurt out his discovery here and now, and charge her with her perfidy? No; there were other guests from the hotel about, making their way down to the ruins. It would not do to start a blood-row within their hearing. Better to wait until they reached the river. They passed the little museum and descended the slope to a bridge that spanned one of the tributaries of the river. As they walked along she chatted away lightly, first about a group of Germans who were a little way ahead of them, then about the Jacksons. She said that on the previous night, before going to bed, she had returned to the lounge to get a magazine, and had run into Ursula Jackson, who had asked her how long she had known Robbie, and several other vaguely leading questions. She added with a laugh that she was sure that charming lady had not accepted Robbie’s statement
that he was a business man and herself his chauffeuse-secretary, but believed them to be lovers enjoying an unofficial honeymoon.

  Had Stephanie made such a remark the day before, Robbie just might have plucked up the courage to break the ice by saying: ‘How I wish we were.’ But now he could think only of the horrible deception she was practising upon him. The letter, which seemed to be burning a hole in his pocket, proved beyond any shadow of doubt that she was only waiting for the chance to betray him into the hands of his enemies. He thought of Jael, who had driven a tent-peg through Sisera’s head only an hour or two after she had slept with him; of Delilah who had cut off Samson’s hair and so sent him to be slaughtered. That sweetly smiling, gentle-seeming creatures could calmly carry out such acts of treachery upon men who loved them seemed unbelievable; yet history provided scores of examples of such betrayals, and there seemed no escaping the fact that Stephanie was just one more of that hideous breed.

  When they had covered another few hundred yards, she glanced at him and said: ‘Why are you so silent this morning, Robbie? Aren’t you feeling well?’

  ‘I’m all right,’ he managed to reply. ‘I had rather a bad night, but I’ll feel better when I’ve had a swim.’

  Reassured about him, she went on to suggest that next day they should cut out their bathe and run down to Phygalia and Theatron where, she had learned from a folder in the hotel, there were some interesting ruins.

  He said he thought that was a good idea, and they would talk about it over lunch. But it brought home to him more sharply than ever that there could be no such next day. Those runs in the car and jolly picnics while he told her stories of the ancient Greeks were over for ever. The sweet companionship with her that he had enjoyed more than anything in his whole life was a thing of the past, and only bitter loneliness lay ahead.

  His thoughts then turned to another case of woman’s treachery that was for him nearer home. The city of Megara had once been besieged by Minos, King of Crete. The siege was long; so Scylla, the daughter of Megara’s King, Nisus, often saw from the battlements Minos in his shining armour and fell in love with him. Her father had one lock of purple hair, and he had confided to her that an Oracle had predicted that the city would never be taken unless he was shorn of this lock.