Chapter 13 : The Missing Report

Samson could see immediately why the younger members of the Legation staff favoured the Café Zacharátos. The atmosphere was lighter, gayer than the Panhellenion. People had come to enjoy themselves, not to be seen. A high proportion of the tables were occupied by students and Samson could not immediately make out the Legation party in the throng — it was Rendel who first spotted Samson and beckoned him: ‘Over here, Major.’

                Samson made his way to a large table at the rear of the café, already occupied by three other couples in addition to Rendel and his partner. ‘Major,’ announced Rendel, feeling the importance of the occasion, ‘let me introduce you to Alec and Rachel Summers. Alec, who you won’t have met, is part of the Naval Mission. He is trying to get these chaps to sail their warships without running them on to the rocks. He’s normally at the Piraeus during the week, but is allowed out on weekends, when it is known there will be no war, and honours us on Friday evenings with his, and his lovely wife’s, presence. Hicks-Beach you already know, and this is Alice, who tolerates us, but no more. What she sees in Hicks-Beach is a subject of constant speculation. Goodhart — what can we say about Goodhart that perhaps you haven’t already heard? Precisely! So we shall move on to Helen, who, like Alice, has clearly married beneath her. And finally, Mary here, our estimable Legation Governess.’

                Samson took a seat next to Rachel Summers and joined in the revelry. It was good to act natural once more. Too much of his life had been given over to secrets — finding them and hoarding them. Too many of his actions had to have a reason. For an hour he enjoyed the company until, that is, he received a sharp kick on the shin. Hoping it might be from one of the ladies, Samson looked round to see instead Rendel gesticulating theatrically with his eyes. Samson stared back blankly so that Rendel was forced eventually to lean over the table and declare in a hoarse, conspiratorial whisper: ‘I say, old man, our friend has just arrived. Over there, by the wall.’ Samson looked in the direction indicated. At a nearby table a young man had just been seated and was busily trying to attract the attention of a waiter.

                Samson excused himself and paused briefly by Rendel’s side: ‘Is he expecting me?’

                ‘Yes, old man, it’s all arranged. He knows you want to talk to him.’

                Mavrogordato was in his early thirties but looked younger, much younger. Spare and taut, he gave the impression of one who would remain calm in any circumstances, who would weigh the possibilities and consider his own self-interest very carefully. Samson bent down so that the conversation would not carry: ‘Mister Mavrogordato? I believe we have a mutual acquaintance in George Rendel from the British Legation? May I join you for a moment?’

                ‘But of course, Major Samson, please be seated. George mentioned to me that you would like to talk about recent events. We have to be quick however — I am expecting some friends from the Foreign Ministry to join me at eight.’

                Samson realized that there was nothing to be gained from trying to be evasive: ‘I trust your discretion Mr Mavrogordato. Let me be frank with you. Rendel only knows that I have been sent here to investigate the assassination itself. However, in the course of my investigation, I have learned that there may have been a report forwarded from your Minister in Constantinople warning that an assassination was planned, but that this report was not acted upon. It has been brought to my attention that, due to the, how shall we say, rather peculiar political circumstances in Athens, such a warning could actually have been received but not passed on to the relevant authorities. I want, if possible, to eliminate this possibility.’

                Mavrogordato looked closely at Samson. The large, thick glasses did their best to hide his eyes, but Mavrogordato detected a basic honesty; indeed more, he believed that the Major would want to get at the truth no matter how painful to his own cause. ‘Major Samson, if — if … ’ he repeated and, to emphasize the point he tapped the table with the two fingers of his right hand holding his cigarette (in the process depositing a small pile of ash), ‘ … if — I tell you what I know, it is because my first thought is for my country. I have to make a decision whether to trust you or not. My position within the Foreign Ministry is too lowly for me, personally, to accomplish anything. Besides, I have to think of my future. I need your assurance that whatever I tell you is confidential. You can use the information how you see fit, but my name must not be mentioned. Is that agreed?’ Samson, who had been distracted by the steadily growing pile of ash on the table, nodded assent. This was not good enough for Mavrogordato: ‘Agreed?’ he repeated.

                ‘You have my word on it,’ and Samson looked him in the eye.

                ‘Very well. First, you are right. Kallerges did send a report from Constantinople. It did not give us much time, but there would have been time enough to have alerted the King. Even if the King had not been concerned for his own safety, extra bodyguards could have surreptitiously been placed around him. This might not have prevented a determined assassin, but Skinas, as far as I am aware, was an opportunist.’

                ‘Why was the report not acted upon?’

                ‘I am coming to that.’ Mavrogordato paused to light another cigarette. ‘First, Kallerges named his source as Baron von Wangenheim, the German Ambassador in Constantinople. This immediately seemed suspicious. Yet Kallerges was emphatic that Wangenheim was to be trusted; however we knew that he and the Baron were on terms on intimate personal friendship and wondered if this might not have clouded his judgment. Assuming, as we had to, that the warning was genuine, this left us with two questions we could not answer. First, if, as Kallerges maintained, the plot was hatched in Vienna, surely it must have been with the connivance of Berlin. We have known for some time of the Austrian scheme to foment trouble in the Balkans for their own ends. Look at Bosnia and Herzogovina. They got away with that, with Berlin’s help. So, what had made Berlin suddenly develop cold feet this time? And the second question is this: Wangenheim must have known that, in the event of the death of the King, the heir presumptive is related to the Kaiser by marriage. This, we must assume, would have been of advantage to Germany. We know of the efforts being made by Germany to woo Bulgaria and Turkey. We know that, in conjunction with Austria, they are seeking to isolate Serbia. By welcoming Greece into their camp, their objective is achieved. However, if Wangenheim’s warning had been acted upon and the King’s life were thereby saved, the King would, in conjunction with Venizelos, be bound to continue Greece’s pro-Entente policy, as well as instigating even closer ties with Serbia.’ Mavrogordato took a shallow puff on his cigarette before continuing. He was oblivious to the commotion all around him as the café filled: ‘I myself was in the Ministry building when Kallerges’ report was received. I know for a fact it was seen by the Under-Secretary and possibly by the Foreign Minister himself. Monsieur Streit (or should I say, Herr Streit?), our Foreign Minister, is, as you are probably aware, of Bavarian origin. His family came south in the train of King Otto. He makes no secret of his leanings. Personally, I make no further accusation, except to say that I believe Monsieur Streit received the warning but that Monsieur Venizelos did not.’

                That was, thought Samson, enough of an accusation to be going on with. ‘And what is your personal leaning, if I may ask?’

                ‘I do not deny that Venizelos is the greatest thing to have happened to my country. We were nothing — nothing! — when he came to power. Already it has started. I feel we will become great again under his leadership. The dream, the great dream, will be realized one day, perhaps sooner than many of us imagined.’

                ‘Constantinople?’ inquired the Turcophile Samson.

                ‘Perhaps, perhaps; I was meaning, however, that part of Asiatic Turkey which is Greek in all but name: that is, Smyrna and its hinterland.’

                Samson knew of the talk, and assumed that was all it was. ‘The Turks will have something to say about that!’ The Greeks, thought Samson, like others before them, had misinterpreted the poor performance of the Turkish army in the recent war. What incentive was there for a peasant from Anatolia to fight to preserve Salonica in Turkish hands? Salonica, although it had been in Turkish hands for twenty generations, was as foreign to him as Budapest or Belgrade would have been. However, if an enemy force should threaten Anatolia itself — his homeland — the Turk would fight to the death.

                ‘Not if we have the backing of the Great Powers.’ Mavrogordato spoke as if it were an accomplished fact.

                Samson thought it wise to change to the topic, lest he betray his own feelings in the matter: ‘So you do not suspect the Premier of any involvement in the assassination?’

                Mavrogordato did not answer at first. He was taking great care in framing his response and Samson could not help but notice that his first response was not automatically to deny any involvement. ‘Venizelos became aware, only some time after the event, of Kallerges’ warning. His sources of information here in Athens are usually excellent but failed him on this occasion. However, when a search was made of the Foreign Ministry the report could not be found and Streit denied all knowledge of having received it. For reasons which I have yet to ascertain, Kallerges himself was also now being tight-lipped. Whether from guilt or some other sinister motive, I do not know. Venizelos could not afford to let the matter drop, for if word of the warning leaked out, Venizelos himself was bound to be implicated. He still has, despite all he has done for our country, many enemies who would be only too keen to exploit such a leak. The Premier therefore put his best investigator on the job — Triantafyllakos. It was to be his task to establish how explicit the warning had been, and who had seen it. His remit was wide — this investigator travelled personally to Constantinople to interview Kallerges, and later, during May, took statements from us all at the Ministry.’

                Samson interrupted: ‘Did you alert him to your suspicions regarding Streit?’

                ‘No; I confined myself to my knowledge of the Under-Secretary’s behaviour. I knew I could not prove, one way or the other, the culpability of Monsieur Streit. I had, as you say, to give him the benefit of the doubt.’

                ‘And was there much doubt?’

                Mavrogordato angrily stubbed out his cigarette: ‘None, whatsoever!’

                ‘Did Trian … Triantaf … Did he complete his report?’

                ‘Oh, yes,’ replied Mavrogordato emphatically.

                ‘Do you know what his findings were?’

                ‘No, not precisely; not word for word. But I do know he pieced together the puzzle to his own satisfaction.’

                Samson leaned forward: ‘Are you able to obtain a copy of his report?’

                ‘No, Major, I am not. It, too, like the report of Kallerges, has been “lost”!’

                Mavrogordato’s matter-of-fact statement did not completely hide the tone of sarcasm. Samson looked deflated: ‘What do you mean, “lost”?’

                ‘The report was completed some weeks ago and was, I assume, presented to the person who commissioned it.’

                ‘Venizelos?’

                ‘Yes, I am afraid to say, the Premier. I recall seeing Triantafyllakos some days later and asking after the report. I was naturally curious, you see. I was told in no uncertain terms that the matter was closed and the subject was not to be raised again.’

                ‘Triantafyllakos told you this?’

                ‘No; I happened to see Triantafyllakos in the main corridor of the Ministry building. I asked him how he was getting on. Unfortunately, at that very moment, Monsieur Streit appeared. He was very angry. He told me to go about my business at once. He also told Triantafyllakos that if he had nothing further to do, he had no business to be in the building. I had to accept the admonition of course, but Triantafyllakos was white with suppressed rage. I made as if to go back into my office but instead, after a short period, went outside where I caught up with Triantafyllakos in the street. “The report,” I asked him. “What of the report?” He turned; his anger had almost gone, but not quite: “What report?” he said, and walked off.’ Mavrogordato was subdued.

                ‘So the report will never see the light of day. A pity! It would have been a great help to me.’

                ‘There may be a way, Major.’

                ‘I’m afraid I do not understand. If it is lost … ’

                ‘Oh yes, the original report is lost — lost in someone’s safe! But there is something Triantafyllakos said to me which makes me suspect he made a copy.’ Samson, who had slumped back in his chair, now sat up bolt upright. Mavrogordato continued: ‘Triantafyllakos is a clever man. Whatever was in his report, he must have known it would not be palatable to read. If Kallerges’ warning was not as specific as he later led us to believe it could mean he was plotting in league with Wangenheim. If Streit were implicated, having ignored a quite genuine warning, it would mean that Venizelos could not trust his own Foreign Minister. If, God forbid, Triantafyllakos uncovered evidence incriminating Venizelos … In any event, if it became known that a warning had been received, either in Constantinople or Athens, the political ramifications now would be incalculable.’

                ‘The fall of the Government?’

                ‘At the very least. I would not put it past Constantine to declare Martial Law. Metaxas and the rest of the General Staff have been waiting for just such an opportunity. Now, when the standing of the army is so high, would be the perfect time to strike. If Triantafyllakos found the truth, it must have been an explosive truth. One that he could not himself utter. Indeed, his very life might be in danger.’

                ‘You believe … ’

                ‘The one thing he said to me before Streit interrupted us was that, “if they come after me, my insurance policy is fully paid up”.’

                Samson was hoping for something more: ‘And that’s all he said?’

                ‘No, you don’t understand. His “insurance policy” is a secret copy of the report. Triantafyllakos must have taken this precaution.’

                ‘That is a chancy course. Are you sure he would do such a thing?’

                ‘Wouldn’t you?’ They cast a knowing glance at each other, the young diplomat and the weary Intelligence Officer. Samson would not freely admit as such, but he had to agree privately that, in similar circumstances, he too would have kept his own copy of the report as a safeguard.

                ‘Where does this Triantafyllakos live?’

                ‘I understand your interest, Major, but I doubt he will speak to you. If it is the report you want can you be so sure he would keep it at his home? It would be very foolish.’

                ‘I think I know the sort of man I am dealing with.’ And Samson thought to himself: He will not trust anyone but himself. If he hands over the report to a disinterested party for safekeeping, that is another person admitted to the secret. If anyone suspects he has kept a copy of the report he will be followed; his friends and acquaintances will also be followed. Questions will be asked, bribes offered and threats uttered. No, if Triantafyllakos has a copy of the report, he will hide it himself. And he might just choose his own home as being too obvious a hiding place. Mavrogordato glanced at his watch. ‘The time, Major — my friends. It would not do … ’

                Samson tried once more: ‘Will he meet me?’

                ‘No, I do not think so Major.’

                ‘Will you at least give me his address? I can find out by other means, but it would be easier if … ’ Samson was thinking of his interview on Monday with Skinas; he had no time to lose.

                ‘As you say, Major, you can find out in any event. Very well then, he lives at 13, Visarionos Street. It runs off Sina Street. It is quite close.’

                ‘Will you warn him?’

                ‘I think, Major, you are the one who needs warning. Triantafyllakos is not a fool. Be careful, my friend.’

                Samson had taken an instant liking to Mavrogordato. He knew that the Greek wanted him to undertake the investigation that he, Mavrogordato, would have done had it not been for his position in the Ministry. Mavrogordato was a committed Venizelist, but there still existed in his own mind a scintilla of doubt; Mavrogordato himself had to know what had happened to the report, and whether Triantafyllakos had indeed found anything to implicate the Premier. There was one last thing: ‘Oh, by the way,’ Samson added, ‘does “The White Tower” mean anything to you?’

                ‘I am afraid I do not understand … ’

                ‘Oh, it is nothing.’ The Major returned to Rendel’s table and resumed his seat next to Rachel Summers.

                Samson continued to go over the conversation with Mavrogordato. He remained unconvinced still as to the possibility that a copy of the report might exist; however, for the moment, it was all he had to go on. He would observe the house in Visarionos Street the next day and, if the opportunity presented itself, would search it that night: a Saturday when, hopefully, Triantafyllakos would be out.

                ‘You have been gone a long time, Mr Samson. You must make friends very easily, or is it part of your job?’

                The Major had been aware of Rachel Summers’ question without at first answering it. He had too much on his mind: ‘My job, what do you know of my job!’ he snapped. With the level of noise in the café, Samson’s intemperance went unnoticed by all except Mrs Summers whose face registered her shock that the Major, whose outward appearance was so benign, should speak so. Shock became reproach, a transformation mirrored also on Samson’s face: ‘My dear Mrs Summers. I do apologize most sincerely. I am afraid I haven’t been well of late.’

                ‘I hope you are now fully recovered and restored to health, Major,’ Rachel Summers inquired solicitously.

                ‘Fully recovered … ’ Major Samson repeated vaguely to himself as an echo reverberated around his head. He felt a sudden surge of elation, fused uneasily with depression; this in turn gave way to a nervous, tingling sensation, as he remembered Edith. Suddenly, she was there with him in the café. And, though he was swathed in rank tobacco smoke, he could still recall her smell; the perfumed fragrance of roses. He remembered the first time they had stood close to one another at Priene, when he was still uncertain as to her true feelings, and their hands had touched lightly, by chance, as they had descended the narrow trench down to the uncovered treasure. With that touch he knew it was to be. Arthur Roberts remained oblivious, days spent excavating, nights spent writing up his finds. Yet his indifference only heightened the guilt felt by Samson and Edith. It was too easy. For this reason they remained discreet while at Priene; no one guessed. Then it was time to move on to Ephesus and the main dig of the season. However, no sooner had they set up camp than a problem arose — Nazim, the overseer appointed by the Ministry, raised innumerable and transparently petty complaints. There was, it was agreed by all, a clear political agenda behind the overseer’s actions, but this was for Arthur to sort out. Samson’s assignment concerned the Vali of Smyrna and the cover provided by the English diggings was useful in the extreme.

A change had come over Edith, as if Priene had never happened. She was distant, for a reason which Samson initially could not fathom until alerted by a chance remark. He had then taken her hand and together they had climbed up to the ruined amphitheatre carved from the side of the hill. The narrow coastal plain stretched out before them: shimmering land that had once been sea. After a while the voice of the Turkish overseer, directing the diggers, floated up to them, mingling on the way with the omnipresent croak of the cicadas. They sat, hand in hand, silent and contemplative, as the bleached blue of the sky began to darken, oblivious to the excavation work proceeding below them. They both recognized the hopelessness of the situation. Tears welled up inside Edith Roberts but did not flow; she pressed Samson’s hand. The Major, finding himself temporarily choked and unable to speak, coughed lightly and, after a time, asked in a low voice: ‘When will Arthur be back?’ He felt an overwhelming sadness as he realized that Edith could not be his. Why, he asked himself, could they not have met when they were both young? Why could they not have shared their lives completely rather than, as he now imagined, having to resort to furtive embraces, knowing looks, snatched chances and a life of deceit?

                ‘The steamer was leaving tonight. He should be in Smyrna tomorrow afternoon,’ Edith sighed.

                This was one thing Samson originally believed he could thank the Turkish authorities for: their insistence that Arthur Roberts obtain a second firman, direct from the Minister of the Interior, for the new diggings he wished to conduct in his search for the ruins of the Temple of Diana. His absence provided the perfect opportunity, so Samson had thought, to force the issue; now he was not so sure. Or rather he, personally, saw his future with Edith but he now doubted her own resolve. The sun touched the horizon and began to melt into the sea. ‘What are we going to do,’ asked Samson hesitatingly. ‘Are we to confront Arthur?’

                ‘No … I … ’ Edith Roberts could not finish the sentence. What had he done, after all? He was guilty of nothing save that he had lost the love of his wife. It was a sin of omission, rather than wilful neglect — an erroneous belief that things would never change. Too much of Arthur’s life had been spent in the search for ruins and relics; that was unchanging, but that was the past. And the past never changed, as much as one would like it to. It remained immutable while the future remained unwritten. Only the present mattered. Only in the present could one choose one’s path.

                As the workmen trudged wearily back to their billets in the fading light, Edith and Lionel returned to the small camp on the edge of the diggings. Edwards, the numismatist, already aware of what was occurring but not given to recrimination, as he liked the Major, had already got the fire going. Lawrence, the young student, was too engrossed in his work; too eager to make a good impression and so be selected for Roberts’ next expedition (there was talk of Carchemish). Edith had considered this as well; Samson’s posting to Smyrna was temporary (just until he could ascertain the threat posed by the Vali’s latest insurrectionist pronouncements), after which he would have to return to Constantinople. There was a slight possibility, mentioned by Lowther in passing, of a roving commission to gather intelligence, though even the incurious Arthur might think it odd that the Major should suddenly turn up at the next dig.

                Early the next day Edith left the camp for Smyrna to meet Arthur. A thin mist clung obstinately to the ground, refusing to be burnt off by the awakening sun. Although most of the journey would be on the Aidin-Smyrna railway, which ran close to Ephesus and was quite safe (not even the Vali would be foolish enough to attack the British-financed railway), Lionel Samson accompanied her, using the pretext of acting as an escort. They arrived in Smyrna that afternoon and Edith immediately went to the shipping office to check that there was no delay. The steamer was on time, and could just be seen rounding the point off the northern tip of the bay. Her heart sank. She knew that, when he walked down the gangway and inquired, after the perfunctory kiss, whether everything was all right, she would nod and lead him past Lionel without speaking. Lionel would see the pleading look in her eyes: not now; now is not the right time; tonight or tomorrow … He would understand and he would be patient.

                She walked away from the shipping office, only to be called back by the apologetic clerk. He had not noticed at first but waiting for her was a cable from Arthur in Constantinople: Hakki Pasha was being difficult. Too many sites were being excavated; too much treasure was being smuggled out of the country. Schliemann’s exploits had given the profession a bad name which, even now, had yet to wear off. Roberts hoped to be able to catch Thursday’s steamer; that meant, as there was little point in returning to Ephesus, that Edith would have to stay two nights in Smyrna. When she told Samson this her mind was made up. The receipt of that cable was a sign. They took a room in the Hotel Berlin.

                ‘Major, Major!’ demanded Rachel Summers vehemently. ‘Are you sure you are all right?’