Decision at Delphi (39 page)

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 needs 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.

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.”

“But this visit to his Greek friends was not about
his
problems. It was about Yannis—Steve, I mean.”

“He probably wants a full inquiry. Not a bad idea, either. Steve wasn’t likely to commit suicide.”

“There’s much more to his death than all this,” she declared, and tapped the newspaper.

“And how did you get that fancy idea?” he asked.

She waited until the waiter had set down fresh coffee for her, beer for Strang. Softly, when they were alone again, she said, “Last night, Mr. Pringle had a talk with George about Steve. Then Mr. Christophorou dropped in, and
he
had a quiet talk with George. Then George lay awake most of the night. He always does that when he is working out some problem. This morning, he went to see his friends. And when he came back from that visit, he started packing. He has left. For Cyprus. He would only say something about a little difficulty that had come up. He always talks understatement when he’s really worried. And so I’m worried.”

She was, too. Strang said more gently, “Now, Caroline—you know that’s his job: to ease out any difficulties.”

“I know, I know. But—” she looked at him— “he didn’t think of
going
to Cyprus until he had that meeting with his Greek friends. How do you jump to Cyprus from Steve’s death?”

Not from Steve’s death, Strang thought; from information about a conspiracy, perhaps. He remembered, now, the jubilation in the Colonel’s voice when he had talked about the raid, a
most
successful raid, on the Kriton Street house, about the captured and incriminated Boris... Had some incident been planned in the Cyprus area, too? Then he shook himself free of his speculations. I’m as bad as Caroline, he thought angrily, always curious, always questioning. One thing is certain: I’ll never know the full scope of the conspiracy. Neither I nor the millions of people on the outside. Only the insiders, like the Colonel, and not many of them, would ever know the full truth. But the Colonel was stretching even his knowledge when he called Christophorou a monster.

“How?” repeated Caroline, still worrying about Cyprus.

“You don’t,” he said, “you just don’t. Unless you are Caroline Ottway.” Her instinct was uncanny, he thought worriedly.

“Did you know Steve really well? I mean—”

He cut her short. “Let’s not talk about Steve. Not today.”

“Nor ever,” she said, challenging him. “Why won’t you talk about him to me?”

“Because,” he said, taking off the velvet glove, “you really don’t like Steve. You resent him.”

“What absolute nonsense!” Her cheeks were bright with a moment’s sharp confusion. Then she said in surprise, “Steve is dead. How extraordinary to use the present tense about him.”

He recovered quickly. “I was talking about you. And you are very much alive.” Her reaction was favourable, and he took a deep breath of relief. “I begin to think you only talk to me because I was a friend of Steve’s.”

She shook her head, but the retreat was complete.

“Cheer up,” he said, “you’ll soon be in your new apartment, and then you won’t have time to invent worries over a café table.”

She tried to smile, but it was a sad effort. Her eyes were too bright. “You must think me a very foolish woman,” she said, looking down at her untouched cup of coffee. “But I don’t really enjoy this life of wandering, of acquaintances, of living in rented furnished flats, hotels, restaurants. I had too much of it when I was young. Now, all I want is quite simple. I’d like to be able to hear my husband talk over his business, meet his friends, have a real house to worry about, and—” she hesitated, ended evasively—“everything that goes with a proper home. Isn’t life funny? All I want is so simple—” She shrugged her shoulders, laughed a little unsteadily. “Or perhaps I’m just a morbid type, always wanting what I can’t get.” She looked at her watch. “Dear me! It’s time to put in an hour on Greek verbs before lunch. I promised Yorghis to get them straight before he gets back from Yugoslavia.”