Chapter 15 : Visarionos Street

Major Samson awoke late on Saturday morning. He was already nervous at the thought of the task he had set for himself that evening and felt like doing nothing more than idling the morning away in bed. As it was the summer solstice, he would have plenty of daylight to waste while the night would be short — short and dangerous. By the time he had eventually washed and shaved it was already afternoon. He decided to walk to an area of the city he didn’t know — away from the Legations, the Archaeological and Medical Schools, the Government buildings, the shadows, the intrigue — and have a long leisurely lunch by himself. He didn’t feel like company today.

                Samson found the solitude he craved in the tangle of narrow streets wrapped around the base of the Acropolis. After what, despite his intentions, turned out eventually to be a perfunctory lunch, for his appetite was still not what he thought it was, the Major trudged up the hill, found a shaded spot by the Erechtheum, and lay down with his back propped up against a stone, dejected and dispirited. The voice of a nearby guide, conducting a party of wilting English tourists, grated — the flat monotone of a well-rehearsed set piece wafted through the still air: ‘The Parthenon was built under the administration of Pericles. The architects were Ictinus and Callicrates. It was finished in 438 B.C. The exact date of its commencement is not known, but as we know that the Propylæa took five years, we must allow a somewhat longer period to the Parthenon. The cost of the building is supposed to have been one thousand talents. It was built entirely of Pentelic marble, except the tiles of the roof, which were Parian … ’

                Samson thought to himself that the guide could say anything he wished and still his attentive students would nod in unison. A party of German tourists approached from the opposite direction. Samson could not understand every word, but enough to realize it was the same monologue, delivered, however, to a seemingly more appreciative audience. The two groups passed each other while the knowing wink of each guide went unnoticed by everyone except the Major. The English gentlemen raised their hats; the German gentlemen reciprocated. The English ladies smiled sympathetically at their German counterparts, who smiled sympathetically in return. The two lines of white parasols, which had spent the afternoon criss-crossing the site, now parted and slithered off to the opposite ends of the Acropolis. The Major shook his head then carefully selected a loose stone and aimlessly threw it at a pigeon which had settled nearby. When the moment could be postponed no longer, Samson retrieved his notebook from his jacket and studied the contents. He had learned much in the past few days: much that he had suspected and much that was a puzzle to him. First came Professor Karo: how did he, a respected archaeologist, fit into the scheme of things? What was his purpose at Avret Hissar with the man Samson now knew to be the new German Naval Attaché to the Porte? Greece and Turkey seemed unlikely allies after the recent war. Next came Achilles and his fortuitous source of information from within the German Legation itself. The portions of this new information that could be verified seemed to bear out his reliability. If, therefore, the rest of his information could be regarded as dependable, what did Samson have? He now believed that the first message referred to something secreted at Avret Hissar, presumably weapons for Greek or German use. Hoffmann had reported that “F” was ready to strike and a Greek (or at least, Samson assumed it was a Greek) called Metriticicas should be warned. And Samson now knew that Hoffmann was in Bulgaria. What would be so important to call for such a warning? A surprise attack, thought Samson — it could not be anything else. Therefore, unless a renegade element existed (which was always a possibility in Sofia), “F” must be the head of the Bulgarian armed forces, and …

                For a moment Samson came close to repeating Achilles’ gesture the previous night of slapping his forehead. How could he have been so blind? — “F” must be Ferdinand, Tsar of Bulgaria. So the Bulgarians planned an attack at any moment against the Greeks! But that was bound to bring in the Serbs; it would be an enormous risk on the part of Bulgaria. Samson could appreciate how they might feel they had nothing to lose. Nevertheless, to take on the Greeks and Serbs seemed a calculated gamble too far. Did they really expect the Turks in the east not to take advantage while the Bulgarian forces were engaged in the west? The problem, as Samson saw it, was that Ferdinand of Bulgaria and Nicholas of Montenegro both suffered from similar grandiose illusions; but that Ferdinand, with a large standing army behind him, was in a position to try to realize his illusions. It was clear to Samson that, as they had received few of the spoils of the recent war but had done most of the fighting, Ferdinand was a loose cannon in the Balkans. Although supposedly aligned to the Triple Alliance, could Germany really count on controlling him? Particularly if, as a result of a successful surprise attack, Bulgaria suddenly found itself greatly enlarged. It was in the interest of all the Powers not to let one or other of the Balkan states become too powerful. The nature of the German plan was beginning to come into focus; and the more it did the more that Samson understood that he would have to let events run their course.

                The latest message from Achilles was to the effect that Ferdinand now needed to delay his attack, but what use was this information to Samson? He could not warn the Greeks, for Quadt was already doing that through Metriticicas. It did not form any part of his remit from Crowe and he suspected, in any event, that the Foreign Office would not want to become embroiled in a Second Balkan War. All that the message did was to strengthen his belief that Berlin was portraying itself as the friend and protector of Greece; that much was obvious from the approach by Colonel Metaxas for a Greco-German alliance. Indeed, as Samson lay there, the confidential message from the Greek Colonel had already travelled along the wires to the Wilhelmstrasse and was being debated by the Kaiser and his cronies. But what was the need for debate — surely, when it reached Berlin, the offer would be accepted with alacrity. Within a week (for hadn’t Quadt announced that they needed one more week?) the alliance would be a fact, Bulgaria would attack Greece, Germany would surreptitiously come to her aid and the Serbs would somehow be held in check, possibly by warlike noises from Vienna, for the Serbs formed no part of the grand German scheme. Greece would thereby be won over to the Triple Alliance; Bulgaria (now surrounded by hostile states, for there was no love lost between either Serbia or Roumania and Bulgaria) would be forced to submit; while Turkey was already a client state. And so the German causeway through the Balkans to Baghdad and beyond would be complete. There was nothing Samson could do to stop it — but he could at least make sure that Crowe was aware of what was going on.

                Samson looked up: the lines of parasols were again on a converging course. The heat was almost unbearable. He mopped his brow and turned another page in his notebook, to find another puzzle: Dr Geroulanos and Skinas, the assassin. By now, Samson had rather lost interest in the crime itself. Skinas, he felt sure, was no more than a puppet. It was the forces behind the deed which he wanted to reveal if only for his own peace of mind. And to do that he needed to obtain a copy of Triantafyllakos’ report. The pigeon he had earlier attempted to stone had now returned, hopeful of a show of retribution or at the very least a few crumbs. The Major selected another stone, tossed it up vertically, caught it again, then stood and brushed the dust off himself before walking back down the hill. He hailed a landau to take him as far as the University Gardens, walked down Sina Street to Visarionos Street, and along it to number thirteen. While the rest of the houses in the street were of fairly recent vintage, number thirteen was a relic of past times that had somehow managed to survive. The newer houses were all of three whitewashed storeys, while number thirteen was conspicuous as being a double-fronted single storey dwelling with yellow plastered stone walls. There was one other thing — even from his cursory inspection, it was obvious that number thirteen possessed a large basement. This would be how he would attempt to gain access. Having completed his reconnaissance, Samson finished the journey back to his room on foot. Once inside, he left the jalousies closed and lay back down on the bed. He felt the energy draining from him.

                Samson closed his eyes but did not sleep. The level of noise reaching his room increased slowly as the night wore on. The first time he checked his watch it was only eight o’clock; he would have to wait another three hours yet. He imagined Rendel and his friends, enjoying another night at the Café; Beaumont and his wife and children having a quiet meal at their home; Elliot entertaining in his villa at Cephissia. Their lives were uncomplicated. Once this job was finished, he would apply for a posting back to England. Eight-thirty. What would he do in England? Adjutant at Aldershot; something in the War Office? He thought again of Smyrna and of Edith. He forlornly recalled their two nights together, when nothing else had mattered except their own happiness. They were both convinced that the clerk at the Hotel Berlin knew they were not husband and wife as they climbed the stairs. In fact, had they looked back they would have seen the clerk, who was broadminded but in any event suspected nothing, scratch his nose and pick up his newspaper. The room itself was airless, windows latched shut. As Samson opened them, the flimsy curtains billowed inwards with the inrush of air. He breathed deeply. They had both been shy at first; self-consciously aware that their flesh had lost the firmness and suppleness of youth. The Major’s torso also bore the scars of old wounds, which glowed softly pink in the wan light of the oil lamp as he had climbed, naked, into bed.

                Edith, who dressed more sensibly than most Englishwomen in the East, still had several layers remaining to divest when Samson caught sight of her diaphanous thighs, surprisingly white and slightly veined like the purest Carrara marble. She saw him staring as she reached to unfasten her stays and so leant over the chimney of the oil lamp and blew out the flame. At first the room was plunged into darkness and the Major was left to imagine the removal of the last items of her clothing. She would, he brooded, be the first woman he had been with since the girl in Beyrout almost a year previously; and then he felt guilty for comparing Edith to her. As his eyes became accustomed to the dark outlines formed and took shape. Edith, now undressed, passed across the rectangle of weak light filtering in from the window and he saw her breasts, larger than he had imagined. He ached physically for her but realized that waiting so long to fulfil his desire added to the pleasure, until, eventually, she quickly slid under the thin cotton sheet.

                On the next night their inhibitions had vanished. As soon as they had entered the room, without bothering to put a match to the lamp, Samson began to remove her garments until she stood naked before him, her hands cupped over her breasts, tremulous. He unbuttoned his shirt, took hold of her hands and gently placed them around his waist. She hesitated; then, at his urging, removed his clothes and they embraced as the room filled with warm, scented air.

                The following day they agreed that Edith would meet the Constantinople steamer alone, tell Arthur what had transpired, and then they would all meet that evening to discuss matters. There was no point in not being civilized; besides, Arthur, who Edith long suspected (unfairly) of having a mistress in London, could hardly object. They parted that afternoon. While Edith waited at the pier, Samson walked to the market place where he idled the hours away until it was time to meet. He returned to the hotel, slightly nervous despite his best efforts to convince himself that what they intended was right for everyone concerned. Edith was not there.

                Nine o’clock. He checked at the Quay; the steamer had already departed on the return journey to Constantinople. Further searching proved futile: he could not find her that night and, when he retired after midnight, following a disturbing conversation with Gryparis, the Hotel’s Manager, Samson spent a restless, worried few hours, occasionally drifting off into a semblance of sleep but which was never far from waking. The scented breeze of the previous night had turned foetid. He could not rid himself of the image planted by Gryparis of Hakki Pasha interviewing Edith to prove his contention that Roberts, by virtue of his supposedly secret deal with the Vali of Smyrna, was contravening the Antiquities Law.

‘Forgive me, Major,’ Gryparis had ventured innocently, ‘it is just this — what if the steamer was not coming to deliver the husband, but to collect the wife? Since the law of 1910 all treasures, no matter how trivial or apparently worthless, must be reported, and belong to the State. It is a serious crime not to comply. If your Mr Roberts was unable to convince the authorities that he has adhered to the law strictly, perhaps Hakki summoned his wife. To threaten a man is one thing; to threaten a lady another. A refusal to admit the truth would not be so forthcoming if the gentleman knew that Hakki was next to interview his wife. I have no wish to alarm you, Major, but if what you say is true, that the lady would not have returned voluntarily to her husband, and that he would not have forced her to return against her will, there are very few alternatives.’ Gryparis’ solution was for him to return to his room; the new day would bring the resolution of the mystery.

                Finally, just before dawn, Samson fell fully asleep at last — when he least wanted to. Dream and reality merged; he reached out and gently touched her soft, yielding, flesh; Edith had returned. He then awoke with a start, his head pounding. There was no one else in the room. Edith’s portmanteau lay where she had put it the previous evening. Surely, if a representative of Hakki had come for her, Edith would have been allowed to collect her belongings? On the other hand, if there had been a scene with Arthur, she could hardly have returned to the room she was sharing with another man. Thinking thus gave Samson some hope that Edith remained to be found nearby, yet he did not see that he could take her belongings with him. The only alternative, he decided, was to pay for the room to be kept until such time as he had completed his task and located Edith. Despite the offer of assistance the previous evening by Monsieur Gryparis, Samson knew that the would work better alone.

There was no information to be gleaned at the steamer office, where Samson called before eight o’clock. The clerk, whose long day had just begun, could vaguely recall an English lady coming to meet the steamer the previous afternoon, but no more; his last glimpse was of her waiting by the Quay as the ship docked. He could not recall her boarding the vessel. Samson then went to the house of Eldridge, the English Consul-General, whose initial annoyance at being summoned on business at such an early hour soon disappeared when he realized the seriousness of the situation. However Eldridge, who knew more or less everything that transpired in Smyrna, could shed no light on the disappearance of Edith Roberts. Similarly, Gryparis’ own investigation, using his own network, proved fruitless. The Major went back to the room they had shared. He was able to visualize Edith and himself, furrowed in to the feather bed and casually draped by the thin sheet. Her possessions remained untouched, hinting at her presence, but no more. The clues to solve the riddle of her disappearance were to be found elsewhere.

With nowhere left to turn, Samson decided to return to the dig at Ephesus. Edith was not there either, though waiting for him was an urgent message from Marling in Constantinople instructing him to return at once; something was brewing. There was talk of an imminent Serbian attack. Although Marling’s cable was concerned purely with the threat of war, Samson was struck by the coincidence that he was, at this very minute, ordered to the capital. Convinced now that Edith must, for whatever reason, have journeyed back on the steamer with Arthur, the Major rapidly gathered his kit and caught the train back to Smyrna. He booked passage on the first available steamer and, in that hour that remained to him, returned to the hotel to find that Edith’s possessions had vanished from the room but that neither the imbecile clerk nor Gryparis could shed any light on the mystery. Had she been in Smyrna the previous night after all? Why could she not have sent word? Then the Major realized he had been blind — she had spent the night with Arthur. The vision of that scene, of Roberts taking what was now his, lingered. That Roberts was Edith’s husband, that Samson himself was the guilty party, did not immediately occur to him. It was a selfish conceit he clung to as he reluctantly boarded the Constantinople steamer, still not knowing what had happened.

                Nine-thirty. The gypsy girl in Adrianople had provided some physical comfort and said she loved him; perhaps she did. Perhaps she saw herself mistress of a suburban villa in Dorking, or in the officer’s billet at Aldershot. She was exotically pretty. Not exactly to his taste once the novelty had worn off; in any event, he knew it was impossible. She would never fit in, nor be accepted in England. He had heard tales of some of his Indian Army friends who had ‘gone native’. He himself could bear to be ostracized but it wouldn’t be fair to her. Perhaps he might meet someone like Rachel Summers? Someone he could feel comfortable with. Someone, he understood only too well, who would remind him of Edith. The paradox that he would then be forever reminded of what he had lost did not occur to him; or, if it did, he would perhaps argue that such punishment was no more than he deserved.

                Ten o’clock. Why were the Germans, as a race, always so devious? Why did they not think that if they had a genuine grievance they simply could not air it and be guaranteed of a fair hearing and a just result? Men like Quadt clearly disliked being ordered to conduct foreign policy in such an underhand way. Even Humann, he thought, would rather deport himself honestly and openly. But then, of course, there was Hoffmann. He knew only one way in which to operate: furtively, deceitfully, sadistically, murderously. Samson recalled their last encounter and shuddered involuntarily. Ten-thirty. It was no good; he couldn’t wait any longer. Triantafyllakos, if he were going out at all, must have gone by now. Samson rose from the bed, splashed his face with water, picked up his jacket and was almost to the door when he stopped, went to the dresser drawer, reached in under the pile of shirts and withdrew his revolver.

                Visarionos Street was quiet when he arrived; too quiet, and he felt conspicuous by his very presence. A solitary couple were strolling some distance ahead, otherwise the street was deserted. As he walked passed the newer, larger houses he imagined staring hidden eyes watching his every move from darkened windows. When he neared number thirteen, and was about to slip unobtrusively down to the basement, the couple ahead stopped and turned to face each other. Samson did not want to walk past the house as the less time he spent in the street the better. He took a chance that they were otherwise occupied and quickly negotiated the steps down to the basement window. The window was closed but the catch had not been fastened. The Major turned back and raised his head just above street level; the couple had now disappeared. He went back to the window, raised it silently, and climbed through closing the window behind him. He felt his way in the darkness, waiting for his eyes to become accustomed to the lack of light. Fumbling for the stairs he knocked an unknown object and stood stock still; nothing happened. Emboldened by this, he reached for the small torch in his jacket pocket. The light from it was dim but sufficient to allow him to find his way. Two large damp patches appeared under his arms; the sweat had soaked through both his shirt and the jacket.

                Once upstairs, Samson looked for a study or any room where papers might be kept. He found such a room at the rear, looking out over the small garden. A plain pine desk stood under the window with a few papers on it. The drawers were not locked. His presence there was a dangerous, unnecessary folly. Mavrogordato was right; the Greek investigator would never be so stupid as to hide a copy of the report here. The drawers contained nothing of interest. Samson shone his insignificant light on the bookshelves lining the adjacent wall. All the books were on Greek history, most of them in English. Noticing a copy of Lord Elgin’s The Parthenon Metopes: their acquisition and transmission to England and, momentarily forgetting his purpose for being in the room, he casually reached for it. As he was in the process of pulling the book down from the shelves he felt the unmistakable sensation of a gun barrel in the small of his back. The man spoke, not in Greek, but English.

                ‘You would steal a book from a poor Greek?’

                ‘I … I,’ was all Samson could say in reply. He stood there, mute, with his arms by his sides, the book still clutched in his right hand.

                ‘What do you want, my friend?’ The voice had a pleasant lilt, without a trace of menace; though Samson did not doubt that it could change instantly.

                Samson had to assume that it was Triantafyllakos holding the gun at his back. Now was not the time to prevaricate: ‘I was given to believe that you might possess a copy of the secret report into the assassination of the King,’ Samson said in a level voice.

                ‘And of what interest is that to you?’

                ‘I have been sent … ’

                ‘I know why you have been sent, Major Samson. You should be more careful in your choice of meeting place.’

                ‘I see — our mutual friend, Mavrogordato.’

                ‘Do not be too hard on him. He only supplied part of the details. The rest I already knew. I know a good deal about you.’

                Samson was growing tired of these games: had Mavrogordato concocted the story, so that he would go in search of the non-existent copy? Why not simply arrange a meeting with Triantafyllakos if that were Mavrogordato’s intention? ‘If you don’t mind my saying so, most of Athens seems to know a good deal about me.’

                ‘It was not meant like that, Major. I am on your side, after all.’ He let his revolver drop and Samson, judging that it was safe to do so, turned round. Triantafyllakos now had his back to the Major, lighting the oil lamp on the desk. When he turned to face Samson, the Major noticed that the Greek was older than he had imagined. With his thinning, grey hair, thick grey moustache and deeply etched face, Samson estimated that he was not far off fifty. Triantafyllakos grabbed the chair out from the desk and sat with his right arm stretched across the front of the desk, the revolver still in his hand.

                ‘Please, Major, be seated.’ The Greek smiled contentedly. Samson pulled the only other chair over towards the desk, still absent-mindedly holding the book he had taken from the shelves, prompting Triantafyllakos to ask: ‘May I have my book back?’

                Samson placed the book on the desk, inquiring as he did so: ‘You are interested in the Marbles?’

                ‘I’m so glad you did not refer to them as the “Elgin Marbles”, Major.’

                ‘But surely he saved them for posterity?’

                ‘Whose posterity, Major: England’s or Greece’s? But we have more important things to discuss. You have come to look for a copy of a report you believe I might have. What do you hope to find in this report?’

                ‘The truth.’

                ‘Ah, then you are bound to be disappointed.’ Triantafyllakos’ eyes matched the coloration of the rest of his face, but as he spoke now a lively hint of blue seemed to mix with the grey. ‘I was able to gather certain facts. With these facts I was able to devise a theory. With that theory I was able to formulate a report. I know nothing of the truth, however. I leave that to my masters. And, as my report has since “disappeared”, you can see for yourself that whatever truth is contained in it is not the truth they want to hear.’

                ‘Who is “they”? Who caused your report to disappear — Streit or Venizelos?’ Samson had leaned forward in his chair.

                ‘It is not that simple, my friend. You want black to be black and white to be white. Is it not possible that someone, someone shall we say, who is a firm friend of England and France might not do something which seems at first to be against the interests of those countries but which, in the long run … Will it help you, Major, if I tell you what was written in my report? You can make whatever use of it you like; but I urge you to consider carefully the options open to Greece before you make your own report.’ The light from the lamp played over the face of Triantafyllakos, highlighting his flared nostrils. As he spoke, the same light glinting off his teeth made the movement of his mouth seem, somehow, to be independent of the rest of his face. The gentle intonation of his voice was almost hypnotic.

                ‘As you know, Major, I was asked to report on the events surrounding the assassination and on the warning which was allegedly received. Much, may we say, in the way that you were also similarly ordered! My brief was extensive: I could travel anywhere and interview anyone. Although this took time, I quickly formed my own opinion. There is always the chance, as I am sure you know, of then finding facts to support your own theory, but in this case, I was satisfied that I had not done this and that the facts could offer no other interpretation. I soon learned that Count Berchtold in Vienna became aware of the existence of the Balkan League in the summer of last year and that he had immediately informed Berlin; however, curiously, neither Austria-Hungary nor Germany took steps to upset it. Part of this, I am now sure, was because Austria positively welcomed the prospect of a Balkan War in which the Turks, with their renowned German military mission, were expected to smash Greece and Serbia, however successful the Bulgarians might be. Faith in the military superiority of the Bulgarians was as strong in the Austrian General Staff as contempt for the Serbians; and General Conrad repeatedly ignored warnings that the Serbian Army, with its equipment of new French artillery, might prove formidable. As a precaution Vienna flooded Bosnia-Herzegovina with troops and ordered a partial mobilization in Croatia-Slovenia and southern Hungary in readiness to “protect” Serbia, by a military occupation, against the hypothetically victorious Turks. Like all things Austrian — obvious but effective! Then war broke out, as anticipated by the Austrians. But almost immediately it all starts to go wrong. The Bulgarians are victorious against the Turks at Kirk-Kilissé and Lulé-Burgas (this is an unfortunate consequence, though not too serious); then the despised Serbians rout the Turks at Kumanovo and Monastir. So successful are they that fifty thousand Serbian troops can be spared and are then sent to help Bulgaria in the siege of Adrianople … ’

                Samson silently recalled just how effective the Serbian troops had been at Adrianople; and what they had done to the Turks when the defences had finally been breached.

                ‘Major!’

                Samson started: ‘I’m sorry, I was momentarily elsewhere. Please continue.’

                ‘As I say, the Austrian plan goes disastrously wrong. No-one expects Greece and Serbia to gain so much territory while Austria’s client state, Bulgaria, does most of the fighting but is up against the main Turkish army, and so makes little ground. It is Greece and Serbia who are now dangerous. The very thing feared in Vienna! While the London negotiations drag on early this year the Austrians come up with a new scheme — Serbia (always able to call on the support of the Russian Tsar) is a lost cause but Greece may be won over with a more pliant monarch. A plan is therefore hatched in Vienna for an assassination attempt to be made. This much I know. I believe that Mavrogordato told you I went to Constantinople in the course of my investigation. There I spoke to an old friend of yours, Mr Fitzmaurice. He, too, had heard rumours of an assassination attempt. There is not much that happens in Constantinople that Fitzmaurice is not aware of. So the plan is formulated and would have been carried out. But (and I believe this is fact and not conjecture) one of the Austrian agents charged with the planning of the crime is actually employed by the Germans. They do not trust anyone! Even their allies!’ Triantafyllakos broke into a broad, infectious grin. ‘And this double-agent tells his boss, Hoffmann.’

                Even in the dim light, the change of expression on Samson’s face was obvious. ‘I see you know of Hoffmann,’ Triantafyllakos responded.

                ‘Yes, we have crossed swords before this.’

                ‘So you will know not to under-estimate him?’ Samson nodded sternly as Triantafyllakos continued: ‘So, now Hoffmann is aware also of the plot and he immediately tells his boss in Berlin. His real boss, I mean, not those incompetents at the Wilhelmstrasse. The All-Highest is worried. His ambition is to sign up both Greece and Turkey. All the officials in Berlin are aware of this but cannot understand how it will ever be possible to align two countries who have recently been at war with each other and who have long-standing grievances, so they are not much concerned. Wilhelm, however, must realize that, if the assassination is carried out, and the crime is traced back to Vienna, then Berlin will also be implicated. The fact that his wife’s brother occupies the throne in Athens will count for nothing. In such circumstances, it might even be possible for Venizelos to force the King to abdicate by implicating him also. So, what does Wilhelm do?’ Triantafyllakos paused for effect, then elegantly waved his left hand through the air: ‘Now, this part is, I admit, conjecture. If he does nothing and the Austrian plan succeeds, Vienna, suitably emboldened, will launch into her next scheme to create trouble in the Balkans. If he does nothing and the attempt on the King’s life is thwarted and the originators of the plan thereby discovered, Greece is lost to the Triple Alliance. Because of the opposition of his own Foreign Office he cannot order Vienna to desist. Germany cannot afford to alienate Austria when all they have to count on otherwise is Italy! Is there another way? What if he warns the Greeks? The status quo is preserved and he himself becomes the faithful protector of Greek interests. What has he to lose? It means his brother-in-law does not immediately acquire the throne, but then King George is already sixty-seven and worn out by recent battles. Constantine will become King sooner rather than later in any event; and we both know that Germany is not yet ready for war, not for another year at least. There is a problem: Wilhelm is supposed to be above politics and cannot approach Athens directly. Also, from what I have learnt, he does not place much faith in Herr Quadt. He needs to employ a go-between with more … more weight … ’ (Samson grinned inwardly, remembering Wangenheim’s huge bulk) ‘ … so he informs Wangenheim in Constantinople, who then warns Kallerges. Kallerges’ report is duly received in the Foreign Ministry here, but is not acted upon. Why? Because the source of the information is tainted!’

                ‘So who knew in the Foreign Ministry? Who took the decision not to act?’

                ‘I don’t see that knowledge of that will help, my friend. The point is that because the warning came from a German source it was disregarded. The warning was not believed, so it did not matter who knew of it.’

                ‘Are you not trying to protect Venizelos?’ Samson inquired.

                ‘There was no proof either way that the Premier saw, or did not see, the warning. As I say, Major, it is irrelevant.’

                Samson emitted an audible sigh: ‘It does not matter,’ he thought to himself. ‘It has all been for nothing.’ His shoulders slumped forward.

                Triantafyllakos noticed the Major’s distress and hesitated, wondering whether to tell Samson what else was contained in his report. Sharing Samson’s sense of futility he decided that no harm could come of it, and it would demonstrate to the Major how difficult it was ever to unravel the mystery of human motivation. ‘There is something else, my friend. Something I myself do not understand, which makes no sense. Wilhelm is cunning but is he also careful. Maybe he thinks the Greeks will be suspicious. He alerts Wangenheim certainly, but that is not all he does. He does not take any chances. Through their double agent the Germans know the identities of the three men sent by Vienna to Salonica to perpetrate the deed. Then (by pure coincidence of course!) Hoffmann is ordered to Salonica. In March, a few days before the assassination attempt is to be made, three bodies are found floating in the harbour. Each has had his throat cut. You perhaps know what Salonica was like at the time — Greeks, Bulgarians, Turks, Jews, forced to live side by side. Murders happened every day. The investigating magistrate concluded that these three men, all of whom were carrying Bulgarian identity papers, were involved in a fight with Greeks. As three murders in one day would have incited local feeling, even in Salonica, the magistrate did not want to publicize the outrage, but quietly filed a report on it, a copy of which was sent here. When I commenced my investigation, I looked closely at events in Salonica around the time of the assassination, searching for anything out of the ordinary. I became intrigued by this report. Men involved in a brawl do not usually end up with their throats neatly slit. And why were no Greek bodies found or injuries reported? Surely in such a brawl some injury must have been inflicted upon the other participants? When I later travelled to Salonica I made a point of obtaining from Police Headquarters the papers these dead men were carrying and examined them: they were forgeries. Of excellent quality, but forgeries nevertheless. I have seen such work before: in my opinion it was the hand of Max Ronge, of the Austrian Evidenz Bureau. You can perhaps see what I am coming to: these men were the three hired assassins!’

                ‘But how … ?’

                ‘Exactly! How did the deed then take place. Here are the three assassins, themselves assassinated, and yet the King is still struck down. Was there a fourth assassin that Hoffmann missed? I find that hard to believe. Could there have been two plots to kill the King? That would seem too great a coincidence, and I don’t believe in coincidences, my friend. No — only Skinas himself can provide the answer to this question and, as I think you know, he is quite insane.’

                ‘Yes, I am due to see him on Monday.’

                Triantafyllakos reacted as if struck. He reached over and grabbed the Major’s arm in a movement so quick that Samson was forced to utter an involuntary shout. ‘How has this been arranged?’ he demanded.

                Samson wrestled his arm free and brushed the crease of his trousers with it, trying to regain his composure. ‘Through Professor Geroulanos at the Medical School,’ he replied, affronted. ‘Sir Francis Elliot was most insistent that I should see Geroulanos before visiting Skinas. Sir Francis is aware that Geroulanos and Skinas were once colleagues and that Geroulanos is mortified by what happened; he thought, in the circumstances, that Geroulanos would be only too willing to oblige in arranging a meeting and providing a suitable introduction as to what I may expect.’ Samson refrained from mentioning his knowledge of Geroulanos’ pronounced pro-German proclivities and his regular visits to the German Legation.

                ‘And what did you tell Geroulanos?’ asked Triantafyllakos with a faint hint of anxiety.

                ‘No more than that I was investigating the assassination, and it would be advantageous, therefore, to see Skinas. I must say that the Professor was less helpful than I had been led to expect.’

                ‘You do not know Athens, my friend. Politics is not a game here, it is deadly serious. You have already taken many chances. The meeting in the café with Mavrogordato was a foolish thing to have done; your coming here was foolish; seeing Skinas on Monday is foolish. You do not know what you are dealing with! Go back to your Legation and tell them that the King died because it was meant to be — no more. Not every act requires a reason. Not every question requires an answer. Go now, and take great care — your life may be in danger.’ Triantafyllakos’ mood had changed; he was edgy, nervous.

                Samson decided that, while Triantafyllakos was in this mood it would be best to keep up the pretence of ignorance. ‘Danger? From Geroulanos?’ he innocently inquired. ‘Why would he wish me harm?’

                Triantafyllakos began as if to speak, then stared long and hard at Samson. ‘I think, Major, you are playing me like a fool. Maybe you do know more than you let on. I have said enough. But I am serious about Geroulanos — he is dangerous. Do not under-estimate him.’

                When Triantafyllakos had finished speaking, they both looked at each other, realizing how, in their different ways, they were really quite alike. Samson spoke first after the silence: ‘Can I see you again?’

                ‘No, my friend, it would not be wise for either of us. I would be careful also with Mavrogordato. He is a good man who wants to help, but he doesn’t know what forces are at work. For his own sake, do not speak openly to him again — certainly not somewhere as public as the Café Zacharátos!’ Triantafyllakos stood and escorted Samson to the front door; he began to open it before inquiring: ‘Would you rather leave the way you came in?’

                The Major smiled: ‘Superstition is for fools; one make’s one’s own luck; and, like you, I do not believe in coincidences.’

                ‘That doesn’t leave much to believe in, my friend. Good night.’

                After checking that the street was empty, Samson left quickly and strided back to Sina Street, checking all the while to make sure he was not being followed. Triantafyllakos returned to his study and picked up the book Samson had been casually holding. He opened the back cover. There, pasted on to the last page, as if it was just another of the numerous diagrams illustrating the Parthenon Marbles, was his own copy of the report of the assassination, written painstakingly in a minute hand. He opened up the folded pages and turned to the last paragraph: “It is beyond doubt, therefore, that not one, but two, warnings were received. The first through semi-official channels (the report of Kallerges from Constantinople) and the second through the German Legation in Athens to a Greek agent working for them (code name “Metriticicas”).” Triantafyllakos looked up and thought to himself that Achilles had done his job well, and if he wanted to make some money on the side by selling the same information to Major Samson, what business was it of his? He returned to the report: “It is my belief that Kallerges was an innocent dupe and that his warning, while genuine, was designed to cover the tracks of the Greek agent Metriticicas. A red herring as the English say. While it is understandable that the first warning might have been ignored, the second warning was unequivocal and should have been acted upon. That it was not was entirely due to the scheme hatched by this Metriticicas. This traitor, for that is what he is, has formulated, with his superior, an audacious plan which will inevitably lead to war. It is a war his superior has been working for, for five years. If it succeeds it will not necessarily make Greece stronger; if it fails, Greece may well be destroyed.” Triantafyllakos skipped the next few sentences and went to the last: “My source within the German Legation has supplied certain information, which, when combined with what I have learned elsewhere, leads me to the conclusion, therefore, based on all the facts I have presented that Metriticicas is employed … ”

                A voice, a low, guttural disembodied voice, filled the room. ‘I will have that if you please.’ Triantafyllakos turned slowly, snapping the book shut as he did so. An indistinct outline emerged from the shadows. ‘Now, if you please!’ It was Professor Geroulanos.

                Triantafyllakos was not surprised. ‘I wondered when I would see you,’ he casually replied as he remembered the revolver on the desk behind him.

                ‘I have no quarrel with you, please hand over that report.’

                ‘How did you know I had it?’ Triantafyllakos edged an inch closer to the gun.

                ‘Your garrulous English friend was overheard last night at the café. You would do well to tell him to mind his tongue in future. I suspected that he would have to satisfy his own curiosity, as to whether you did have a copy of the report. The Major is nothing if not predictable.’

                ‘How long have you been here? Why did I not hear you enter?’ Another inch closer to the desk.

                ‘I followed the Englishman in through the basement. You were distracted, talking to him. Now, the report, for the last time!’

                The Professor’s hands were clenched; Triantafyllakos could not make out whether he was carrying a weapon. He needed only a little more time. ‘I assure you, the report doesn’t prove the connexion. It is all supposition.’

                Triantafyllakos turned and lunged for the gun behind him. As he did so, Geroulanos plunged the hypodermic syringe he was carrying deep into Triantafyllakos’ back. The effect was almost instantaneous. Triantafyllakos’ eyes bulged out, threatening to explode from their sockets; his teeth involuntarily bit through his lower lip as he fell forward across the desk. Geroulanos retrieved the book and checked the inside back cover to make sure it was what he thought. It was only then that he turned to examine the body of his putative accuser. He felt for a pulse; finding none he turned the body over. The injection should have produced a slight narcosis, no more, yet the lifeless eyes stared dully and plaintively. Triantafyllakos was dead. There was nothing left for it. Geroulanos picked up the syringe, which had fallen to the floor as he had rolled the body, then stopped momentarily, thinking he had heard a noise from outside. Convinced at last it was safe to do so, he carefully positioned Triantafyllakos in the chair, put the gun in the body’s limp hand, placed it to the temple, and pulled the trigger. The retort echoed loudly around the small room. It had made more noise than Geroulanos, who had never fired a gun before, imagined. Surely people would, at this very moment, be rushing to investigate?

                Geroulanos, his chiselled face contorted into a gruesome mask, returned to the basement to survey Visarionos Street while remaining hidden. To his amazement, nothing seemed to be happening. He waited a few minutes, to make absolutely sure, before exiting through the window and quickly making his way back to his office in the Medical School nearby. Major Samson had almost crossed University Gardens when the single sharp crack of a pistol shot stopped him in his tracks. He looked back behind him, to where the shot appeared to have come from. There was no-one in sight. He turned back again, dug his hands deeply into his jacket pockets, feeling, as he did so, the revolver in the right hand pocket, and marched smartly back to his room.