Chapter 10 : The Pension Merlin

Until a room could be found for him in the Legation — and that might take some time as, despite his personal sympathy towards him, following his illness, Sir Francis was less than enamoured of his official presence and what he took, as a result, to be the questioning of his competence — Lionel Samson temporarily shared the First Secretary’s minute office, on the understanding that it would have to be vacated should Beaumont require privacy. Elliot did not want the Major in the office while Beaumont was working on dispatches. For the time being, however, there was still the Annual Report for the previous year (now months overdue) to complete and Beaumont could just as easily work on this in the Legation library.

                Anyone who entered the small office unannounced that June morning would have discovered the Major peering intently out of the window, transfixed on some far point in the shaded garden. A small bird, partly camouflaged, dropped out of the shadows and down to the small pond to bathe. The Major’s stare remained fixed. Yet his gaze did not betray whether he was deep in thought or idly day dreaming. Only the slowly shortening shadows, as the sun approached its zenith, marked the passage of time. The air in the cramped office had become fetid. It was then, having stared into space for the best part of an hour, that Samson slowly swivelled back to the desk, to the new small, black, loose-leaf notebook with the gold pencil casually placed across it. His instructions had been explicit: investigate the recent assassination to determine if Venizelos was in any way involved, and report whether, in his opinion, the Premier was to be trusted. Yet Samson could not get Professor Karo out of his head. What was he doing at Avret Hissar? What was Hans Humann’s part in the charade that had then been enacted? Without knowing the answer to these questions, Samson was yet convinced that, in some way, these two men would play a part in his investigation. He opened his notebook and, using his familiar cipher, made the first entry.

                Major Samson had long had an interest in cryptography and for years had employed a variant of the Wheatcroft enciphering device, as described in Kerckhoffs’ “La Cryptographie militaire”. However, for lengthy messages, he found this too cumbersome. He placed no faith in the Playfair system on the basis that any cipher openly described in the standard Officer’s Field Service Book was not worthy of his attention. His own cipher was a simple affair in itself, which he had committed to memory so that he could take notes almost verbatim, though, if necessary, he would revert to plain text which he would encipher later. Aware that, in its original guise, it could be broken with reasonable application, the Major employed a further trick of his own devising. Once the original text had been deciphered the message would then be found to be written in one of the more obscure local dialects indigenous to Basutoland, which Samson had picked up during his service in the South African War.

                Samson wrote Karo’s name on the first page followed by the list of questions he wanted answering. Before he could complete a similar exercise for Humann, a short knock at the door caused Samson hurriedly to close the notebook, but not before his action was witnessed by Henry Beaumont. While he would not have cared for too much excitement, Samson’s presence, and the task he was engaged in, were a constant reminder to Beaumont that the bulk of his own work was mundane. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you Major. I need a copy of a recent dispatch from Belgrade.’

                ‘Not at all. It’s very good of you to let me use your office.’ Samson recognized something of himself in Beaumont: what he might possibly have become had circumstances been different. And he realized that, given Elliot’s animosity, he needed an ally. ‘While you are here, you could perhaps enlighten me. What do you know of Professor Karo, the German archaeologist?’

                Beaumont remembered Elliot’s injunction at once, but consoled himself with the thought that this applied only to dispatches: ‘Karo? Let me see.’ Beaumont was already aware of most that was known about Karo but wanted to impress upon Samson the fact that he, too, was capable of his own investigative work. The First Secretary moved across in front of Samson and opened a locked desk drawer from which he extracted a small wooden box containing a card index. ‘This is something I have done on my own initiative, you understand. Sir Francis rather frowns upon any imputation of skulduggery, even in our German colleagues.’

                ‘And you do not?’

                ‘Let’s just say that I believe it is wise to know your enemy, and not to underestimate him. I keep notes on all the prominent German citizens in Athens, on the members of the German and Austrian Legations, and … ’ Beaumont stopped suddenly in mid-sentence when he realized that his satisfaction at the fact that his secret card-index might at last prove of use had let him run away with himself.

                ‘And what?’ queried Samson.

                Henry Beaumont looked down at the innocuous box with its well-kept secrets. What purpose was to be served by his work if he continued to treat those secrets as his own private domain? His fixed Samson with an earnest stare: ‘Please do not, under any circumstances, reveal this to Sir Francis. My investigation into the background of certain of the German officials stationed here has revealed the existence of a small, but highly influential, group of prominent Greeks who, if not actually subvented by Berlin, are Prussian by temperament. They believe that only Germany is in a position not only to defend Greece but also to assist in any future war of territorial conquest. This group is led by Professor Geroulanos at the University Medical School, whose activities occupy three full cards in my box. You have to understand, Major, that the political situation in Greece is extremely confused. Who is to say that the workings of this group might not result eventually in the overthrow of the Venizelos cabinet.’

                ‘They have that power?’ Samson longed for the relative simplicity of the Turkish system, whereby the overthrow of the Government was usually accomplished at the point of a gun.

                ‘I believe so. That is why I keep my notes on them. However, if it were to become known that a senior member of the British Legation kept clandestine records on Greek citizens, the Legation would be placed in an eminently embarrassing situation, and the position of the “culprit”, if I may so describe him, would be untenable. In the circumstances, it is best that Sir Francis does not know of the existence of this box.’ Beaumont nimbly fingered the cards and produced Karo’s. ‘What is your interest in the Professor?’

                ‘I have heard his name mentioned on occasion, no more.’ Samson had not yet decided whether to take Beaumont completely into his confidence.

                Beaumont’s satisfaction that his extra curricular work might at last prove of some value was tempered by the paucity of information he held on Karo. ‘There is probably not much here that you do not already know. Director of the German Archaeological School on Charilaos Tricoupis Street. Has lived in Athens for eight years. The physical description is of no interest, I presume. No known local political affiliation. In fact I believe he rather keeps himself to himself, apart from regular visits to the German Legation. Absorbed in his work, I imagine. The only other thing out of the ordinary perhaps is the frequency with which he has been seen of late on the Salonica steamer. Otherwise, there is not a great deal here. I could describe him as a “minnow” were it not for his bulk!’’

                For all the information that Beaumont was able to provide, Samson now regretted admitting an interest in the Professor. ‘The regular visits to his Legation: is this not unusual?’

                ‘Oh, no — Quadt, the Minister, keeps an open house for German expatriates in Athens. It could mean something, of course, but the explanation is almost certain to be mundane.’

                Beaumont replaced the card in the box and was in the process of putting the box back in the drawer when Samson tried another tack: ‘Does the name Humann mean anything to you?’

                ‘Another archaeologist?’ Beaumont posited.

                ‘No, not that one, but possibly some relation. Much younger; perhaps a son?’

                Beaumont shook his head: ‘No, there is no-one in Athens I know of. Where did you come across this other Humann?’

                ‘Near Salonica. I have a feeling he is an officer.’

                ‘Army or Navy?’

                ‘Not sure,’ shrugged Samson, trying to remember Humann’s demeanour at Avret Hissar, ‘perhaps Navy.’

                ‘Then you want to speak to Captain Boyle when he returns from his sojourn. Being the Naval Attaché for Rome, Athens and Constantinople is a demanding occupation. I don’t see how one man can be expected to do the job properly now that all three navies are expanding at such a pace.’

                ‘No,’ thought Samson to himself, ‘and also be expected to conduct under-cover expeditions to the Dardanelles to report on the latest defences.’

                Beaumont looked longingly at his chair. He still had the annual report to finish (there were too many distractions in the library) and wanted his office back. Yet he was intrigued by Major Samson and anxious to be of whatever help he could. ‘What do you intend to do now?’ he inquired, a little too solicitously.

                Samson had been waiting for this. To avoid revealing, for the moment, the precise nature of his mission, he needed a blind. The chance meeting with Karo and Humann now provided it. ‘I want to investigate our German friends a little more closely. But first I must find somewhere to live. Sharing Montgomery-Cuninghame’s suite at the Hotel d’Angleterre is not an ideal arrangement. I thought, for my purposes, something discreet near the German Legation.’

                ‘You should, with little difficulty, find an unobtrusive pension just off Academy Street. Here, let me show you.’ He unfolded a map and pointed out the location of the German Archaeological School on Charilaos Tricoupis Street, which ran at right angles to Academy Street, the site of the German Legation. Samson hoped to find lodging where it might be possible to keep an eye on both the School and the Legation. Beaumont folded the map once more and handed it to the Major.

                Sensing Beaumont’s desire to return to his own desk, Samson announced that, to clear his mind, he would walk around there immediately to see what was available. He left Beaumont’s cramped office with the First Secretary’s invitation to join him at the Panhellenion Café that evening for a drink before Samson journeyed to Elliot’s villa at Cephissia, north of Athens, where he was expected that night as a guest for dinner.

Walking out into the solid wall of heat which had formed in the small square, Samson passed the Ministry of Finance, crossed Stadium Street and headed towards the oasis of the University Gardens. Although curious to view the German Archaeological School, Samson did not want to risk being recognized at this stage and so avoided Charilaos Tricoupis Street. The rattling of a passing tram pierced the stillness of the afternoon; the Major felt tired. Despite all his years in the Near East the heat still affected him badly. He had always hated the thought of perspiring, feeling it was in some way indicative of a lack of control. Even at Ephesus, working in temperatures of a hundred degrees, he had been embarrassed when the tell-tale damp patches appeared through his shirt and had avoided Edith’s touch. To add to his suffering, he was still not fully recovered from his illness and wished he had not accepted Beaumont’s invitation to the Panhellenion, while the very thought of the trip to Cephissia palled.

                Once the tram had clanked off down Stadium Street, quiet once more descended upon the University Gardens. It was difficult to imagine as he ambled through them that the fate of the Balkans could depend on what he accomplished. Not that Major Samson felt burdened by responsibility; no, it was the folly of man which upset him. He had witnessed such folly at close hand. Too much blood had been spilled already, yet he had the uneasy feeling that the next Balkan War, if it should come to that, would be the worst. The Bulgarians, deeply unhappy as to their cut of the spoils, would not take the adjudication of the Powers with good grace. But there was no more Turkish territory left for them to claim; any further expansion could only come about at the expense of Serbia and Greece. Would they really be so foolhardy as to turn on their erstwhile allies? Of one thing Samson was certain. Having seen them perform throughout the siege of Adrianople, he was convinced that the Turks would not simply remain quiescent behind their own lines, but would take any opportunity presented by Bulgaria’s overweening ambition to re-enter the fray and claim back what was lost to them.

                As these thoughts whirled through his head, Samson noticed a curious little man, on a parallel path, who was obviously interested in his movements. He had been warned by Beaumont that most people leaving the Legation were followed. If so, Samson thought, it was no wonder the Greek Secret Service enjoyed the reputation it did, for it was a very crude attempt at concealment. The only aspect of the man which made any concession to his supposed job was his physical appearance, which was most un-spy like. Of apparently less than average height (though his true height was disguised by a slight stoop), and with a non-descript face whose only concession to originality was a straggly moustache, the man moved off with a curious shuffling gait when Samson stared back at him. Samson did not resent the fact that he was being followed; it was all part of the game. Having seen off his shadow, he turned smartly out of the Gardens and into Academy Street.

                The German Legation was not unlike the British, being a simple but pleasant house set in an acre of gardens in Academy Street. Further along the street, near the intersection with Charilaos Tricoupis Street, Samson found the Pension Merlin, which would be ideal for his purposes. The second floor room was bare but adequate; its most important feature however was the uninterrupted view of the German Legation on the opposite side of the road. And, by climbing on to the flat roof, it was also possible to see, to the rear, the entrance to the German Archaeological School in the adjoining street. Despite the fact that there were few tourists due to the heat, the question of rent involved delicate negotiations. Samson had unwisely displayed too great a desire to obtain the room which fuelled the landlady’s already exaggerated suspicions. If he really were an English tourist, she thought, why was he not staying at the Grand Bretagne or even the cheaper Imperial? If he really did need the seclusion, for whatever reason, he could pay for it; if, on the other hand, his choice was the result of mere eccentricity, well, he could pay for that as well.

                The price initially quoted was three times Beaumont’s estimate. It would have added to the woman’s suspicions to have accepted without feigning hurt surprise that tourists were always viewed as an easy take. His display of pique resulted in a reduction to approximately double the figure Beaumont advised was a fair price to pay. But the limit had been reached; the woman had better things to do than deal with eccentric Englishmen; besides, she was sure of her instinct. Samson hesitated just long enough to cause her to wonder if she had not misjudged her man, then offered her an outstretched hand. Having agreed the rent, Samson closed the jalousies and lay down on the bed. He was soon asleep.

                A loud retort from a solitary motor car backfiring jolted him awake. Opening the shutters, Samson was shocked to see the lengthening shadows. He looked at his pocket watch: it was after six o’clock. He had been asleep for hours. His luggage was still at the Hotel d’Angleterre, but there was no time now to go there to change; he was supposed to be meeting Beaumont at the Panhellenion within minutes. But Beaumont would have to wait, until at least Samson had had a chance to bathe the dust off him. He hated having to put his soiled clothes back on after his bath, but had no choice.

                The Panhellenion, one of the larger cafés in Omonia Square, was quieter than Samson had expected. Its reputation as the meeting place in Athens did not appear to be borne out by the ranks of empty chairs. As he soon learned from Beaumont however, the café would only begin to fill up later. Arrive at midnight, so Beaumont assured him, and you would have difficulty finding a table. Beaumont had already ordered a glass of the local wine for Samson but it was not to his taste and he pushed his glass distractedly around the table, still more asleep than awake. At the first chance he ordered a coffee.

                ‘You had no problem finding accommodation then?’ inquired Beaumont in a forlorn attempt to start the conversation.

                ‘No, no problem.’

                ‘In Academy Street?’

                ‘Yes, Academy Street.’

                ‘Is it suitable for your purposes?’

                ‘Yes, eminently.’

                Beaumont was on the point of continuing his mild interrogation when Samson caught sight of someone. He turned to inquire of Beaumont: ‘I say, old man, you didn’t have me followed, did you?’

                ‘Followed? I am not with you.’

                ‘I was followed from the time I left the Legation.’

                ‘Nothing to do with me, Major. As I said, most of us are followed at one time or another; it affords the other side both experience and employment. Can you describe the man?’

                ‘Better than that. He’s sitting in that corner.’

                Beaumont turned round sharply and they both stared at the stooped man seated by himself, with the remnants of the last sip of beer still visible on his moustache. He quickly picked up his copy of that day’s Embros, began as if to read then, after a few seconds, lowered the newspaper. His two accusers were still staring. Nervously folding the paper, he knocked his chair backwards as he stood, and shuffled out of the café, disturbing a line of chairs in the process. Beaumont turned back to Samson and they both laughed.

                ‘You must expect that, Major. Obviously a Greek, what with a copy of Embros, and so, also, perhaps in German employ.’

                ‘I am afraid I do not see the connexion.’

                Beaumont sipped his insipid, unresined wine; he did not enjoy it, but felt that somehow it was required of him. He rarely ordered anything else at the Panhellenion; however, once inside the confines of, say, the French Legation, he was partial to a good Burgundy. ‘You have much to learn, Major, about the political situation here. There are two camps: the Venizelist and the anti-Venizelist. You are either in one or the other; there is no alternative. This divide covers every facet of life here including the press. Embros is one of the more rabid anti-Venizelist organs. It proclaims, for example, that security for Greece can be found under the protective wing of the Kaiser. Hence, I take it that your man wishes to impress his German masters by reading the “right” sort of paper.’

                ‘Or, of course,’ Samson retorted, ‘he could be trying to bluff us into thinking that.’

                ‘Really, Major, I can see that we poor diplomats are too straightforward to be good spies.’

                ‘Is that what you think I am?’

                ‘Your mission is the subject of much speculation, Major.’ Beaumont sipped his wine, considering whether or not to say what was on his mind. ‘I know that Sir Francis regards it, whatever it may be, as in the nature of a slight.’

                ‘That’s rather presumptuous of him, isn’t it? I cannot see how it could possibly be construed as that, particularly as the rumour originated in Constantinople.’

                Samson had already considered the matter. It was clear to him that to proceed alone in Athens would take too much time. Although aware of the stricture against imparting the precise reason for his mission, Samson needed someone on the inside, who could guide him through the labyrinth of Greek politics; who could provide introductions where needed. Beaumont, he had decided, was that man. The First Secretary’s quizzical look at the mention of the Constantinople rumour convinced Samson that the real nature of his mission had not been divined; now was the time to take Beaumont into his confidence. The Major assumed, by virtue of Beaumont’s secret card index, that the First Secretary would relish the idea of assisting. Samson took a sip from his drink, grimaced, and continued: ‘I will need some help, Beaumont, and I trust I might count on you: what I say now is given in confidence and must go no further. Not even to the Minister — just yet, although Sir Francis may perhaps be told soon. I will know better after our meeting tonight. Is that agreed?’ Beaumont nodded assent, and Samson continued: ‘A rumour was received in London from Constantinople that the Austrians were behind the recent assassination.’

                If that was the great secret, Beaumont was unimpressed. ‘There is nothing new in the rumour,’ he broke in, ‘such speculation was rife here at the time.’

                Samson clearly disliked being interrupted: ‘The rumour went on, however, that the Austrian plot had been uncovered, that the Greeks’ own minister to the Porte, Monsieur Kallerges, became aware of it, and that Kallerges in turn notified the Foreign Minister here in Athens.’

                Samson now stopped to let Beaumont absorb the information he had just been given. He could see Beaumont mulling it over, trying to make sense of it. The look of habitual concern worn by Beaumont was intensified until, in a flash of inspiration, it cleared and he blurted out: ‘Venizelos! You suspect the Premier?’ Then, however, the enormity of the accusation overwhelmed him and the First Secretary sank in despair.

                ‘Kallerges reported his suspicions sometime early in March. There was ample opportunity to have taken precautions to safeguard the King’s person.’

                Beaumont dared not believe it. He raised his glass to his lips only to find it empty. There was no such thing, he knew, as a totally disinterested diplomat. If Samson had not already guessed, Beaumont was firmly in the Venizelist camp and had been since soon after his arrival in Athens three years previously. ‘You are overlooking one possibility, Major.’

                ‘What is that?’

                ‘The warning never reached Venizelos. You are forgetting that the split between the competing factions extends even to the Foreign Office. If Kallerges’ report fell into the hands of someone in the opposing camp it may never have been forwarded to the Premier.’ Beaumont, unable to convince himself that this may have happened, realized that such tenuous reasoning would hardly be likely to satisfy the Major. He needed more time to assimilate Samson’s information before commenting further. He checked his watch ostentatiously. ‘If you will excuse me, Major, I am afraid I must be off. My wife and children … ’ Beaumont’s voice trailed off. It had never occurred to Samson that the First Secretary would have his family with him in Athens.

                ‘Of course, Beaumont. Perhaps we could continue this conversation tomorrow?’

                Beaumont rose, still deep in thought. ‘Yes, of course.’ He made to move away, then remembered one last item. ‘Oh, by the way, Major. As Captain Boyle will not be here for some weeks yet, I made some inquiries of my own this afternoon. Hans Humann, or more correctly, Korvettenkapitän Hans Humann, has just been appointed as the German Naval Attaché to the Porte. He is due to take up his appointment in a matter of days.’