Mayhem in Greece Read online

  ‘I suppose it is, sir.’ Robbie replied, not quite knowing what the Minister meant by ‘protocol’. Then he went on innocently: ‘This isn’t exactly an official visit. I came to see you because I understand that there is no oil in Greece, and I want to find out what is behind the deal.’

  The Minister drew in a sharp breath and his dark eyebrows came down in a heavy frown. He was both angry and puzzled. Could it be that this big, round-faced young man was making fun of him? Surely not. Even if this were an unofficial visit, the British Ambassador would come down like a ton of bricks on his nephew if he were informed that he had made a mockery of a member of the Greek Government. Yet this bland enquiry into a negotiation still officially secret was a flagrant impertinence. All the same, perhaps it would be wiser not to regard it openly in that light. The British were still a power to be reckoned with. At times, they could be extremely arrogant, and it did not pay to cross them when they were in that mood. If he gave the young man a piece of his mind and threw him out his uncle might call him over the coals in private, but make an issue of the matter and demand an apology. That could do him, Nassopoulos, no good whether they got their apology or not. Better then to pretend that the young man’s question was not a matter for justifiable resentment. After a moment he smiled and said:

  ‘Mr. Grenn, please let me assure you, and kindly assure His Excellency your uncle, that there is no ulterior motive behind this transaction. We wish to sell our tobacco crop at a fair price and the Czechs are prepared to pay it. Not because they particularly want our tobacco, but because the Iron Curtain countries now wish to develop better relations with Greece. That is the simple truth. As for our concession granting them rights to prospect for oil that, I imagine, is to serve as one of those myths with which many governments find it necessary to entertain their peoples in these days. We are convinced that there is no oil here, but the Czechs appear to believe there is; and, no doubt, the concession will be announced in their House of Representatives to justify their having paid a somewhat higher price for our tobacco than they would have had to pay for tobacco from the Crimea.’

  Robbie’s broad smile lit up his round face. ‘I see, sir. Yes, that explains everything. Well, thanks a lot for having seen me and told me this.’ He slowly came to his feet and added: ‘I know you’re busy, so I won’t bother you further.’

  Nassopoulos also stood up. His white teeth flashed and he extended his hand. ‘It is a pleasure to have met you, Mr. Grenn. Please convey my compliments to His Excellency.’

  Five minutes later Robbie was wending his way between the stalls of the flower sellers, as he crossed Klafthmonos Square, the centre of Athens’ best shopping district. It was too early in the year for the great heat that affects the Greek capital during the summer months, but was a pleasant sunny day, warm enough for few people to be wearing overcoats. Being in no hurry, as he entered the upper part of Stadium Street, he paused to look in the windows of Athens’ Fortnum and Mason. Among the de-luxe groceries displayed there reposed a large, toy pig as an advertisement for a brand of bacon. It was sitting up on its haunches and a mechanical device made its head turn slowly from side to side while its blue, china eyes rolled in their sockets, giving it an expression of gluttonous delight. Robbie adored it and often stood exchanging happy grins with it for several minutes.

  Tearing himself away, he crossed the road and entered a big pâtisserie. The cake and sweet shops of Athens are perhaps rivalled only by those in Paris. Their windows are filled with every form of confection, from elaborate iced creations to an amazing variety of pastries and boxes of chocolates of all shapes and sizes. There are, too, at least six such shops to the square mile for every one in the West End of London. Chocolates made of every kind of nut and toffee, or filled with liqueurs, nougat and sugared almonds are their speciality, but they have much less choice to offer in soft chocolates and sweets made with cream, because of the permanent shortage of butter and fats in Greece.

  Robbie was, therefore, surprised to see that a special display had been made of some boxes of large, vari-coloured fondants. He bought half a kilo and remarked on their being a new line, upon which the girl behind the counter told him that they had only just come in and were from Czechoslovakia.

  That sent his mind back to his recent interview. With a gullibility that was a natural corollary to his own transparent honesty, he had accepted Mr. Nassopoulos’ statement at its face value. By the time he had descended in the lift from the Minister’s office, he had been laughing at himself for ever having imagined that there was something sinister behind the tobacco crop deal, and his own absurd idea that he might bring off a great coup if he took on the role of a secret agent. Now, his chance discovery that the Greeks were importing sweets from Czechoslovakia made it look as if the two countries had entered into a much wider bargain; in fact, it must be so, because Greece was much too poor a country to import anything without a quid pro quo, with the exception of essentials for her industries.

  On the face of it, such a pact held no sinister meaning for the Western Powers, which made it seem odd to Robbie that Nassopoulos had not told him frankly about it. Of course, when making their offer for the tobacco crop, the Czechs, knowing there was no oil to be had in Greece, might quite well have insisted on the Greeks agreeing, in addition to that concession, to take some of their exports in part payment for the crop. Yet, if they were getting fair value in this way, why should they also have wanted the concession to prospect for oil?

  Nassopoulos had given as their reason a wish to have something to show that would justify their paying a bigger price than was necessary for several million pounds’ worth of tobacco. The Greeks had probably thought that strange, but they would have been the last people to raise any question about it, because it cost them nothing to give the concession, and their one anxiety must have been to dispose of their crop on satisfactory terms. Yet it was strange.

  The Governments of democracies like Britain had to mind their ps and qs. If they used their people’s money to buy in a bad market without some adequate justification, the papers created a stink about it, and several real bungles of that kind might lead to the Party in power being thrown out at the next election. But in the Iron Curtain countries matters were very different. The only thing their Governments had to watch out for was to retain the approval of ‘Big Brother’ in Moscow. The people had no say whatever in Communist-run countries. The Party bosses ran the show as they saw fit, and did not have to provide excuses for anything they chose to do with their nation’s money.

  All the way back, up the broad Vasilissis Sofias to Loukianou Street, on the corner of which stood the British Embassy, Robbie pondered this problem, but could find no answer to it.

  At lunch there were half a dozen people, so he had to make polite conversation and postpone further thought about his problem until the guests had gone. Afterwards he went up to his room and tried to work at his book, but the right words would not come. That had happened on previous occasions and he had a sovereign remedy for it—an hour spent up on the Acropolis among the ancient temples never failed to bring him fresh inspiration.

  He had no car of his own, neither had he ever attempted to drive one, for he had been told in his late teens that, owing to his slow responses, he would prove a danger to himself and others. Having walked down the broad boulevard, he picked up a taxi opposite the Royal Palace and, within ten minutes, was approaching the scene of Greece’s greatest glory.

  Like a big, oval island, the Acropolis stood out above the roofs of the city. Except for the steep slope at its south-west point that gave access to the almost level plateau on which stood its temples, its five-hundred-foot-high cliffs rose sheer on all sides. On national holidays and during the tourist season, it was floodlit at night by dozens of batteries, each consisting of a score of searchlights that played not only on its temples but also on its cliffs. Seen like that, the natural grandeur of its site crowned by the highest art of man, made it appear a city of palaces high up
in the night sky, and a worthy dwelling for the gods. But even by day, seen from any angle, it was tremendously impressive.

  Robbie’s taxi took him along below its southern face, into which, during Greco-Roman times, had been built the Theatre of Dionysus, the long portico of Eumenes and the Odeon of Herodes Atticus. Turning north, it carried him half-way up the slope that had been made into a delightful park. For the remainder of the steep ascent he had to walk, but soon he had reached the Sacred Way and was climbing the broken stones that formed the staircase to the mighty Propylaea.

  At the top of the giant staircase he paused to look back. On his left he now had the Temple of Victory, on his right the Column of Agrippa, above which had once towered the hundred-foot-high statue of Pallas Athene. Before him was spread the panorama of what had been the heart of the early citystate—the Areopagus, or Hill of Mars. There the Great Council had sat, to try such famous men as Socrates. Beyond it lay the stony hillside, with its gaping cells, in one of which Socrates had been imprisoned, and the Pnyx, a long slab of rock from which world-renowned orators had declaimed to assemblies of the people before they voted on the laws that were to govern the first democracy.

  These nearer objects caught the eye against the backdrop of a splendid panorama. To the north-west the summits of the Aigaleos range were outlined against an azure sky, to the west lay Piraeus and the Isle of Salamis, to the south-west there sparkled the blue waters of the Gulf of Athens, and to the west rose the mountain of Hymettus, famous for its honey.

  Turning, Robbie made his way toward the centre of the plateau. To his right front now lay the Parthenon. For over two thousand one hundred years it had retained, except for its looted interior, its pristine glory; but in 1687, when the vandal Turks were besieged on the Acropolis, they had used it as a powder magazine. A shell had blown up the magazine, shattering the greater part of the wonderful reliefs depicting the procession of the Panathenaea festival; but even so defaced, its rows of marble columns and perfect proportions made it a thing to marvel at.

  Robbie knew every metope and corner of it, but he was not going there today. Instead, he inclined half left towards the Erechtheum, the second largest temple on the Acropolis, that had supporting its west portico the row of tall marble female figures called Caryatides. Instead of advancing so far, he stopped short in front of the south face of the temple. Some yards in front of it a solitary olive tree, the only tree of any kind on the Acropolis, was growing out of a square, stone trough.

  It is related that, on the founding of Athens, Poseidon and Athene both wished to become the patron of the city. A Council of the gods was called, and Zeus decreed that the honour should go to whichever of the rivals produced a gift which would prove the more useful to men. The Sea King struck the earth with his trident and out sprang a horse. Athene produced an olive tree, and this symbol of peace and plenty was adjudged the more valuable gift; so she became the protectress of Athens.

  As olive trees live for many hundreds of years, it is just possible that the quite slender tree now growing on the Acropolis may be an offshoot from the root of the first tree planted there in Athene’s honour. However unlikely that may be, Robbie had never speculated on the question. It was enough for him that the tree was the symbol of the great goddess.

  Although it was still early in the season, quite a number of tourists were rambling among the fallen monoliths scattered over the great plateau, and three conducted tours, including one of school-children, were making the round of the temples. For some minutes, Robbie had to wait until no one was near enough to notice what he was doing. Then he quickly pulled a small medicine bottle from his trouser pocket. Before leaving the Embassy, he had paid a visit to the dining room and filled it with his uncle’s port. Now he quickly poured the contents of the bottle, as a libation to the goddess, at the root of her tree.

  Shutting his eyes, he remained standing there, waiting for counsel. But not, as had been the case on previous occasions, for inspiration as to how to proceed with his book. It was with that intent that he had started out, but he had since decided that he would not be able to go on with his book until he had freed his mind from the thoughts that had been agitating it for the past twenty-four hours.

  Silently now, he prayed to the goddess either to assure him that he would be wasting his time in pursuing further the matter of the Greco-Czech agreement, or that it would be worth his while to do so.

  A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the olive tree, but to Robbie, through these rustlings, a quiet voice spoke.

  ‘Strange mortal, who in these times has been granted the wisdom to understand that the gods can never die, and still have power to aid those who call upon them at their shrines. For the sake of my country and for yours, you must take up this quest, and whate’er befall, pursue it to the bitter end.’

  4

  ‘When First we Practise to Deceive’

  The gentle rustling of the leaves was suddenly drowned by a strident voice. Robbie felt sure that the goddess had been going on to whisper counsel to him, but he caught no further word. A conducted tour composed of Germans was approaching, and their fat guide was reeling off facts and figures for them in a monotonous bellow, as they advanced from round the south-east side of the Erechtheum.

  Robbie was furious at the interruption, but there was nothing he could do about it; so, to get away from the crop-headed Herren and well-upholstered Frauen, who were now surrounding him like an incoming tide, he broke through the group and clambered up the steep steps in front of the main entrance to the temple.

  Standing between the twenty-foot-high Ionic columns of the portico, he could look down over the nearby north wall of the Acropolis. Far below him lay the principal ruins of the ancient city: the great open area of the Agora where, in the narrow streets between a dozen temples, the Athenians had held their markets; the Theseum; the Library of Hadrian and the Tower of the Winds. But he looked down on them with unseeing eyes. For the moment, he could think of only one thing: he was now irrevocably committed.

  As soon as the group of Germans moved on, he hastened back to the Sacred Olive Tree. Again he stood before it, with closed eyes, and prayed for guidance. Again the leaves rustled in the gentle breeze, but this time their rustling formed no pattern of whispered words. In vain he strained his ears, and reluctantly accepted that the goddess could no longer be there only when he heard footsteps close behind him and a voice with an American accent saying:

  ‘Could you tell us, please, what this little tree would be doing here?’

  It was a tall young man with three cameras slung about him, and a very pretty girl leaning on his arm. Robbie had little doubt that they were honeymooners, and he gladly told them about Athene’s tree. He knew the Acropolis as well as any professional guide, and could talk much more interestingly about its ruins. At any other time, he would have offered to take them round, but he was still too overcome by the thought that one of the greatest of the Immortals had actually spoken to him to give his mind to anything else. Politely excusing himself, he hurried towards the north-east extremity of the plateau.

  There, on the highest point of its slope, a large circular platform had been constructed, with a waist-high wall round it, from which the cliff dropped sheer. Above it, from a flagstaff, floated the flag of Greece, and this spot was known as the Belvedere for it gave the finest view of all from the Acropolis. To the north, the countless houses of the modern city stretched into the misty distance in the valley between Mount Poilikon and Mount Pendelikon. Nearer, one could pick out the principal buildings of the fashionable quarter; the Royal Palace facing on to Constitution Square; Venizelou Street with its fine university buildings; and the main boulevard, Stadium Street, running parallel to it. Beyond them, nearly two miles away, but still within the city, Mount Lycabettus, shaped like a sugar-loaf and nearly twice the height of the Acropolis, towered up, the sun glinting on the roofs of the monastery that crowned its summit. To the west lay the National Park, and across the river the
modern Stadium, both, in the extraordinarily clear atmosphere that is peculiar to Greece, looking so close that one could have thrown stones into them.

  The Belvedere was a favourite haunt of Robbie’s to laze and dream, but now he was thinking hard of a way in which to set about the mission that the goddess had imposed upon him. He decided that it was most unlikely that he would get any more out of Nassopoulos, even if the Minister were aware, which seemed doubtful, of the Czechs’ secret intentions. That left only the Czechs themselves as a source of information.

  To pay a visit to the Czech Legation and ask someone there would obviously be a waste of time. That being so, the only course that remained seemed to be to think of some way to worm himself into their confidence.

  It struck him then that perhaps, after all, the Czechs might have real grounds for believing that they could strike oil in Greece. Science, the world over, had advanced by leaps and bounds during the past ten years. Russia often used her satellites as cover for her own activities, and no one could deny that the Russian scientists, as far as anyone in the world, had recently penetrated the secrets of Nature. Perhaps some of them had devised an entirely new method of detecting various types of geological formation and, all unsuspected by the Greeks, oil did lie below their rugged mountains.

  Spurred to sudden activity by this idea, Robbie left the Belvedere, walked as swiftly as he could across the uneven, pitted stones that formed the surface of the Acropolis, hurried down the slope and took one of the taxis that were always waiting in the car park for a fare. Jumping in, he told the driver to take him back into the city and stop at the nearest telephone kiosk.

  From the kiosk he rang up the office of the United Kingdom Petroleum Company, and asked for Mr. Luke Beecham, the Company’s chief representative in Greece. Beecham’s work often entailed meetings with the Commercial Attaché, and he frequently paid visits to the Embassy, both on business and as a guest. He was a bachelor in his early forties, so was much older than Robbie, but he was a charming and kindly man and had often gone out of his way to be pleasant to the Ambassador’s shy and somewhat ungainly nephew, to whom most people of any standing were inclined to speak only politely, then ignore. He had, too, several times asked Robbie to small parties at his flat, and had taken pains to draw him out.