When in Greece

by Emma Lathen

  Makris, himself, remained a man of mystery. True, he spoke excellent and idiomatic English. But he was said to speak five other languages as fluently. What could be more sinister?

  Thatcher was inclined to think his colleagues were succumbing to a romantic stereotype. Wall Street had simply forgotten that there are middle-class Greeks.

  “I thought we might meet informally to discuss Hellenus,” said Makris with a faint smile. “I know our subordinates have everything in hand. But there are a few things I felt I’d like to discuss with you.”

  While Thatcher was not one of those who saw Machiavellian cunning writ large on Makris or on Makris & Son, he still did not believe that Paul Makris was the man to delegate responsibility for multimillion dollar projects.

  “I’m delighted to discuss Hellenus with you,” he said neutrally. “As you perhaps know, Everett Gabler is on his way to Athens and he’ll be representing the Sloan in the final negotiations next month.”

  “Ah,” said Makris. Now this was no more than a slight indication of information received. But since Wall Street is not a community in which people frequently indulge themselves this way, Thatcher thought he saw one reason why Paul Makris was looked upon as a strange and enigmatic figure. Well, he was not going to play that game.

  “Of course, you will have heard that at the Sloan we’re having communications difficulties. We haven’t heard from our representative in Athens since the Army took over. Everybody assures us that there is no likelihood of serious mishap.”

  Makris concentrated on an indifferent shrimp cocktail. “Yes, I had heard something about your Mr. Nicolls. It is very strange. Although from all that I hear . . .” he broke off for a moment, then continued, “but Mr. Nicolls is one reason that I wanted to discuss things with you, Mr. Thatcher.”

  Thatcher listened with care as Makris went on.

  “I have myself been out of town for the last few days.” Makris very deliberately did not say where he had been.

  Had Thatcher been a lesser man he might have countered with an Ah of his own.

  “. . . but of course, because of my special interest in Greece I do keep in touch with developments. It now appears that Hellenus will be able to continue without any radical changes occasioned by this new regime.”

  Thatcher, in turn, picked his words carefully.

  “That certainly is our impression and I am glad to hear you say so as well. But it may be too early to make assumptions of that sort. There has been a total overthrow of the government, with political prisoners, censorship, and suspension of the constitution. It seems to me that it would not be surprising to expect more changes—of one sort or another—in the next few months. I am not certain where any such changes will leave Hellenus.”

  Makris looked up at that. “You think so? Interesting, very interesting. But of course, at the moment we are committed to Hellenus . . .”

  “It is certainly too late for us to pull out now,” said Thatcher.

  “Indeed. Oh, indeed. But, as I was saying, at the moment our investment in Hellenus seems safe enough. You agree? Good. That is why I am . . . slightly concerned about this one unsettling feature.”

  Thatcher suddenly sensed wariness. For some reason, Makris was projecting extreme caution. Thatcher hastily repressed a smile; possibly someone over at Makris had warned Makris that John Thatcher of the Sloan was a deep one, an international banker, a man to be approached with utmost caution.

  “Am I correct then in assuming that you have not heard from Athens today?” Makris asked suddenly. “No? Then your Embassy will no doubt be in touch with you soon. Or perhaps your Mr. Gabler when he arrives,” said Makris, crumbling a roll. “But I have associates in many places in Athens.”

  “I do not doubt it,” said Thatcher.

  “Last night,” Makris said, “somebody broke into the Hotel Britannia, into the room of your Mr. Nicolls. Oddly enough, nothing was stolen. As I understand it, the room was simply searched. According to these . . . er . . . reports . . . it would appear that somebody was looking for something.”

  It was Thatcher’s practice to maintain silence in the face of totally meaningless data. But now, with Makris’ close-set eyes unblinkingly fixed on him, some response was necessary.

  “I wonder what it could be,” he said without emphasis.

  Makris looked at him quickly, then, as quickly, away.

  “I am sure you do, Mr. Thatcher. Just as I do.”

  Chapter 6

  The Mountains Look on Marathon

  Caught between perils of earthquake and firing squad, Ken and his fellow prisoners did not linger at the scene of the crash. They could see that the cab of the wagon had crumpled against an uprooted tree leaning across the road. The Greek doctor, after fumbling for several moments through the twisted window frame, announced that the driver and guard were dead. Then he leaned further inside. When he re-emerged from the cab he was holding a dark object which clinked dully metallic as it glanced off the doorjamb. Suddenly the interpreter hissed and gestured frantically backward. Far down the darkened highway, regularly spaced headlights heralded the approach of a military convoy. With one accord the five men dived for the embankment by the road.

  In his first frenzied rush, Ken was conscious of nothing but approaching menace—the threat of more soldiers, more guns and, if the action of the Greek doctor had any meaning, more shooting. He hauled himself up the embankment, hand over hand, snatching blindly at stubby undergrowth, sometimes missing and slipping back on the shale underfoot, but always thrashing out for a new hold.

  Only when he fell to his knees did he realize that he was over the top. Without pause he rose to a standing crouch and set forth in a broken run. The ground was uneven. One arm protected his head from the branches that whipped aside under the impetus of his charge and then swung back, scratching and grating along his sleeve. He fell several times, but thrust himself up and forward in one unbroken movement, driven by his fear of a search party fanning out from the site of the wreck.

  He never knew how long that first insane dash lasted. Conscious thought returned only when he fell for what must have been the fourth or fifth time. When he tried to regain his feet, he fell immediately.

  “Hell! Now I’ve had it. Something’s twisted or broken, and I can’t run anymore.”

  Almost with relief, he lay full length, his laboring lungs gasping for air, his pulses hammering in his chest and throat and head. Only when the roaring subsided did he make a discovery.

  It was not he who was unsteady: it was the earth itself. The tremors that he attributed to his own weakness were being reinforced by tremors from the ground he was embracing. Then he remembered what the approaching convoy had made him forget. He was in the middle of an earthquake. Cautiously he raised himself on one elbow. He tried to remember what it had been like in the truck. Even allowing for the force of the collision that had been a longer and mightier shock. With luck, the earthquake was abating. Or, he thought grimly, gathering itself for the final, devastating blow.

  Shaken, he rose first to his knees, then to his feet. He could not protect himself from the elements. But they were proving to be a godsend, as far as his human enemies were concerned. The earthquake had made a good start by wrecking that damned paddy wagon. Now it was undoubtedly raining rocks and trees onto the road. With luck, the convoy had been halted. At the very least, any search for him was more complicated. The only course open now was to count his blessings and forge ahead, getting as far from that highway as possible under the shelter of night. Tomorrow morning, if he was still alive and at large, would be the time to think.

  Belatedly, he realized he must avoid the perils of a circular course and scanned the dim starlit sky. But Ken was a city man; the stars to him were a decorative lacy display, not a navigational aid. He ended by placing his dependence on a steady ascent, always aiming for high ground. Twice he was interrupted by additional tremors, but they were mild compared with what had gone before. He regarded them almost gra
tefully as long as he could think at all. But his stumbling run became a dogged walk, then a drunken lurching.

  “I’ve got to keep going until morning,” he told himself.

  But an hour before the first pinkness streaked across the east, exhaustion brought him to his knees. After two or three attempts to rise, he rolled over, surrendering himself to a blackness darker than the surrounding night.

  It was high noon when he woke to pain and a raging thirst. His last act had been to slide into a clump of scraggly trees with a carpeting of undergrowth so that only now was the sun penetrating his retreat. In confusion he tried to take stock of himself. His suit was a motley of rents and tears held together by a mass of dust, blood, and creases. Memory came rushing back, and with it came caution. Quickly he scanned his surroundings. But the stony landscape slumbered peacefully in the sunlight, devoid alike of sound and movement. He levered himself upright and essayed a cautious movement. He realized that his limbs however stiff and aching were in working order. There was nothing to prevent his proceeding at the pace of an arthritic and elderly man.

  “But move where?” he asked himself.

  That question answered itself. His first need was water. Within half an hour he was kneeling beside a spring freshet that tumbled briskly over moss-covered boulders in a hidden fold of the hillside.

  Drinking greedily, he realized he had been lucky so far. He could not hope to move stealthily over this countryside in full daylight. The Greek Army was probably quartering the hills this very minute.

  And there were no long vistas to warn him of a search party. Soldiers could be within arms’ reach before he knew it. On the horizon a man with binoculars could be waiting patiently. Every time Ken budged, he risked observation. A single glance would tell any hidden watcher that the missing American had been found. The safe course was to travel by night.

  Ken passed the afternoon holed up by his stream in a convenient thicket. As the hours passed he learned that the countryside was not as deserted as it seemed. Two men in country clothes passed, loping along silently, intent on some errand. The afternoon silence was broken once by a woman calling musically in the distance. An approaching clatter, some time later, resolved itself into a boy running with a stick in his hand, rubbing it against tree trunks and spiky shrubbery. All this Ken watched, but he himself came in for attention only once.

  While he was listening to the woman, a friendly butt pitched him forward on his face. Turning, he found himself being inspected by a very curious and smelly goat. She obviously identified him as an alien intruder into her world and a welcome novelty. For several agonized moments, while Ken feared that someone would come looking for her, she considered settling down with him. But his rigid aloofness defeated her interest and she finally ambled placidly off, in search of other excitement.

  With the first shadows of sunset, Ken saw a finger of smoke rising vertically in the still, breathless air. Earlier he would have been appalled at the closeness of a habitation. Now he was acutely aware that he had not eaten since the previous evening. There could be no question of a night’s travel without food. He must avoid the Army, but he could not hope to survive without human contact.

  When twilight was well established, Ken made his way toward the smoke. As far as he could tell, his appearance at the open door of a plain stone hut was greeted with exactly the same enthusiasm as his appearance at the gates of Hellenus, back in the good old days. There were the same broad smiles, the same sweeping gestures of invitation. Four suddenly-shy children were shooed off, and the black-clad woman retreated inside. The husband, apparently settling down to an aperitif on a stone bench against the front wall, hospitably poured a second glass of the local retsina wine.

  Ken attempted a few explanatory sign movements, but these were waved aside with much laughter. His host seemed to be urging patience on him and Ken suffered a pang of social embarrassment. Did he think that this uninvited guest was howling for a quick dinner? Mortified, Ken retreated into a somber silence that remained unbroken for a quarter of an hour. Then one of the children returned, escorting a robust man of about seventy.

  In unmistakably American accents, the newcomer identified himself as Louis, cousin to the lady of the house. “Came back from Gary, five years ago. I retired from the mills,” he explained. “Looks like you had some trouble last night. Car smash?”

  Yes, Ken agreed truthfully, he had an accident on the toll road when the earthquake sent a tree down in front of his car.

  “You look all in.” Louis was sympathetic. “Put your feet up! Rest! You’ll feel better after dinner.”

  The family displayed an instinctive courtesy when the food was placed on the table. They were all too familiar with the symptoms of hunger and fatigue. Conversation was a family affair until Ken had finished his large bowl of vegetable stew—a dish in which he identified only the lentils and olive oil. But as he sipped the last of his wine, Louis began to relay the gist of the remarks. They were discussing the earthquake, quietly commenting on the human traffic occasioned by the disaster—there were the homeless moving to temporary relief stations, the bereaved searching among the victims, there were construction crews and road engineers, there were soup kitchens and first aid stations.

  As strength returned Ken paid more attention, and a picture of the countryside emerged. For the first time he realized that the earthquake had not been a personal event in his own isolated predicament. It had been a public event affecting thousands beside himself.

  He pricked up his ears. He had pictured himself—disheveled, homeless, wandering—as a unique phenomenon. But apparently the landscape was overrun with figures superficially like him.

  With this realization came a return to sanity. He had been a fool to think of hiding out in the countryside. He was incapable of living on the land—on this land he doubted if anyone could. He would simply wander around, becoming progressively weaker, until he was picked up. No, his safety lay in making a break for the Embassy in Athens while Northern Greece was still in the throes of upheaval. What had they been saying in the paddy wagon? The Army could avoid trouble by shooting him out of hand. It was quite another thing to wrest him from the wing of the American Ambassador.

  For the first time, Ken began to take an intelligent interest in his geographic surroundings, cursing the intellectual snobbery that had made him study maps of Delphi and the Parthenon and left him ignorant of his environs.

  Louis was happy to oblige. There were two principal roads from Salonika south to Larissa. The new tollway along the coast, which Ken had left so abruptly, was the main artery for through traffic and the only high speed road in Greece. But there was the older inland route, passing through Verroia and Kozani. It was along this route that the commercial and social life of the inhabitants centered as it always had. Here movement tended to be local, assisted by country buses and aged farm carts. Ken had made his escape inland not far from the junction of these two roads. Louis regarded it as natural that Ken should wish to proceed via the inland road.

  “It is only three miles from here,” he said. “And I’m going there in the morning. Come with me. When we reach the highway I must turn north, but there will be a bus for you going south to Verroia.”

  Ken went to sleep that night on the floor of the hut in a mood of confidence. There was no insuperable bar to a modest progress southward by a series of local buses. It would be a circuitous route, and therefore all the less likely for a fugitive on the run. And somewhere there would be a phone. Of course he could not use it himself. He would need a post office with an operator who spoke English—unlikely in these parts and far too dangerous. The police could save themselves the trouble of combing the hills. They had only to alert the exchanges for an American trying to reach the Embassy.

  But there was Louis going into the local market village to the north. And there was more. Almost the only personal possession which had remained intact, throughout Ken’s arrest and flight, was his wallet. Among the miscellany of pr
ofessional cards, there was the card of an attaché at the Embassy, complete with his residential phone. There was also a very comfortable wad of Greek currency. Good!

  While he himself was escaping to the south, Louis could call Bill Riemer and pass a guarded message. At least it would be a life line.

  With a shudder Ken recalled the huddled body of Dr. Elias Ziros. He could use all the life lines he could get.

  The United States Government, the Greek Government, and the Sloan were not the only ones interested in what was happening to Ken Nicolls.

  There were others, among them Bacharias, Under Secretary to the Ministry of the Interior before the coup. He was still in office although there were now a new Minister, several new undersecretaries, and a new public relations officer who wore the uniform of the Royal Artillery and was, to all intents and purposes, illiterate in three languages.

  Bacharias, like most civil servants these days, was treading very warily. At his sumptuous office in Athens he was indefatigably and ostentatiously busy with apolitical matters such as projected analyses, including sealed bids, concrete subcontracts, and electric power substations. He eschewed the pleasant habits of an earlier era; he had no coffee sent in at midmorning. He lunched alone. He did not initiate condescendingly kind inquiries to his secretary about her family and activities.

  Bacharias carried his circumspection into off-duty hours. Since he was quieter than most Greeks, his wife in their pleasant high-ceilinged apartment on Amalia Street did not notice much difference. The servants did. The domestic life of the Bachariases remained formal and old-fashioned as ever. But dinners—and like many Greeks of his age and class, Bacharias entertained at dinner as often as four times a week—were very different. Instead of the twelve to twenty guests that had been customary, Bacharias carefully pared his list to comply with recently promulgated laws.

  Accordingly, once his wife had withdrawn with the ladies, Bacharias and his guests constituted a gathering of five men, just within the letter of the law. Like all Greeks they realized that those charged with enforcing the laws would never count women as part of an unlawful assemblage; do not Greek fathers have children and daughters?