Chapter 19 : An Intruder

Major Samson lay back on his bed with his arms clasped behind his head, staring at a stained patch on the ceiling. He could not rid himself of the image of Achilles’ brother fighting for breath under the earth, clawing at the dirt until his fingernails were ripped off. Yet, in a way, he felt that he was trapped and suffocating. He had finally come to realize that his mission had been futile. Crowe’s assignment could not be fulfilled; perhaps it was never intended to be. Every time he thought he had ascertained all the facts some new piece of evidence presented itself. The history of this period in Athens, when it came to be written, would be a lie; all history is a lie. You cannot hope to see the past through the present. Yes, there had been a warning about the assassination, but this would have made no difference, as he was now convinced that Skinas was determined to act alone in any event. Triantafyllakos was murdered not because he had uncovered some dark secret implicating the Greek Premier but because a Professor at the Medical School feared exposure for his indiscreet dealings with the Germans. Achilles was helping him not for money (or, more precisely, not only for money) but to avenge the death of his brother, which he blamed on the Germans. The King and the General Staff, probably without the knowledge of the Executive Council, propose a defensive alliance to Germany, acting, so they must have thought, on the automatic assumption it would be accepted with alacrity. Instead it is rejected for fear of German entanglement. The Bulgarians, who had done more than anyone to foster the formation of the Balkan League, now intended to smash it with a surprise attack on Greece. Did nothing make sense in this part of the world? And then it came again: the vision of the mute scream as the gasping mouth filled with earth.

When Samson returned to the Legation on Tuesday morning Beaumont was already in his office. Samson tapped at the door, inquired if he were disturbing Beaumont and asked if he might not have a word? Equally deferentially, Beaumont asked if Samson minded if he smoked his pipe.

                Samson began first: ‘I realize, Beaumont, that my presence here has been inconvenient to you personally, to say the least. What was said yesterday needed to be said. As I told you, I am nearing the end of my mission which, I have to admit, has been a failure. There is one last thing I have to do to try to redeem myself in my eyes. It is for my benefit only — Crowe and Nicolson can be damned. In any event, my usefulness is at an end.’ He began to laugh as he made this admission, a mocking laugh which echoed around the small room.

                ‘Major?’

                ‘It’s all right, Henry. It’s just that that description was recently used about someone else. You could answer one question for me, before I leave: how do you cope with it all. The lies, the betrayals, the falsehoods, even the supposedly genuine but mendacious declarations given in good faith: how do you know whom to trust?’

                Beaumont clearly did not like to discuss this aspect of his work: ‘I limit myself to calculated judgments, Major. I do not see that there is any other way to deal with such things. For example, whether I trust him or not, I believe it is vital for our interests that Venizelos remains as Premier, especially now, to act as a counterweight to Constantine. I have to accept that Venizelos represents the best hope for the people of Greece; if I didn’t believe that … but you see, it is not exactly a question of trust. Everything we do is a compromise in one way or another — everything!’

                Samson removed his glasses and the room blurred as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘I prefer more certainty in my dealings, Henry, I suppose it is a prerequisite for the job.’ He replaced his glasses and as he did so a bird flew the past the window attracting his attention. Beaumont turned to look as Samson spoke again: ‘I shall presently be sending my report to Crowe; I would like you to see it before I send it off.’ Samson then proceeded to outline the salient facts which had come into his possession, including his suspicions concerning Geroulanos’ possible involvement in a murder, the failed alliance negotiations and the prior warning the Greeks had now received of the proposed Bulgarian attack. Beaumont appeared sceptical that so much could apparently have happened right under his nose. It would not look good in the report to London. Yet, what could he do, other than send in a report of his own to try to undermine the Major’s findings? Samson concluded: ‘Outside of this building everyone I have spoken to has had something to hide. Skinas, despite his own admission, is, I am convinced, clearly deranged and so I exonerate him. Triantafyllakos had reason to suspect that his original report would not be well received and so kept a copy for his own protection; instead it turned out to be his death warrant. Even Mavrogordato, who I thought the straightest of men when I spoke to him, and who professed that Venizelos was the greatest thing to have happened to Greece, I now see was deliberately pointing me in the direction of Triantafyllakos’ secret report. Yet, although I have no proof, I believe that the report implicated Venizelos. What is his motive? No more than to ascertain the truth, or does it go deeper than that? However, I reserve my greatest contempt for Geroulanos, the timid revolutionary. He would sacrifice anything for his cause, except his career, his good name, his life…’

                ‘I can see that the political situation in Athens has got to you, Major.’ Beaumont’s attention was still on the effect Samson’s report would have on his own prospects. ‘You may be right about Skinas, and I cannot comment on Mavrogordato or his possible motives, but from what I can see, your evidence against Geroulanos is almost wholly circumstantial.’

                ‘Don’t misunderstand me. I have spent years out here — the Levant, Smyrna, Constantinople. I know the Turks are past masters at saying one thing and doing another, but you expect that of them. The Greeks are less blatant, which makes the result worse. And what I can’t forgive is their sanctimoniousness. You are entitled to your opinion about Geroulanos, although, for me, the evidence is damning, but still I have to admit that he is convinced he is doing right for his country. Does that make him a traitor? My contact inside the German Legation reports to Triantafyllakos and then offers me the same information for money, although that may not be his primary motive. Is he betraying his trust or not?’

                ‘You are using too narrow a definition of treason, I fear, Major. It is different for us and our entrenched history. You must remember that these are new states. We can draw lines on a map at a Conference in London, but what does that really settle? Yesterday’s peasant in Durazzo wakes up and is Turkish; today he wakes up and he is Albanian. Yet what has changed for him? There are still hungry mouths to feed — will being an Albanian at the whim of some gathering of Ambassadors make his life any easier? As for the Greeks, historically it is not long since they have thrown off the Turkish yoke. Their national identity, shall we say, is not strong. And then, in the recent war, great swathes of Macedonia and Epirus suddenly become Greek territory. The people there have their ancient tribal loyalty — what do they owe to some King, who is not himself Greek, but who happens to be sitting on a throne in Athens?’

                Samson was not convinced: ‘That may be so; there is still the question of personal betrayal. Mavrogordato told me what I wanted to hear, knowing what I would then do; as a result a man died. Am I responsible for that? Is Mavrogordato responsible for betraying the trust of Triantafyllakos? There is betrayal all around us Henry. I am forced to consider the prospect that the ability to betray, to lie at will, is part of man’s most basic nature. Even if it is not, it is so universal that some of it must rub off. Don’t you see: it is impossible to be virtuous in a corrupt world. When every motive is suspect, how is it possible to recognize virtue? And, once one loses the capacity to recognize virtue, every act becomes squalid and pointless. One has to be aware of the illness before one can treat it. Perhaps I feel the personal betrayal more than I should. In my position one must come to expect it, but this does not lessen the blow.’

                ‘Are you sure that this has something to do with what has happened in Athens?’

                Samson looked surprised: ‘Why, what do you know of Smyrna?’ he inquired anxiously.

                ‘Smyrna? I was thinking of Adrianople. Perhaps something happened there … ’

                ‘Adrianople?’ Samson laughed. ‘It follows me around, Henry. I seem to attract betrayal — something in my makeup perhaps? But each subsequent betrayal diminishes my spirit so that I am as you see me now: an empty, soulless man.’

                ‘You’re tired Lionel, and perhaps not fully recovered. These are anxious times, I admit.’ Beaumont had become infected with Samson’s malady. ‘At least I have my work and my family to keep me contented. I do my work to the best of my ability, but I am fortunate to be able to leave policy in the hands of Sir Francis. He makes the decisions and takes the responsibility; I am a mere functionary.’ Beaumont’s voice betrayed not envy, but the thought that, at forty-seven, time was rapidly passing him by. He had had ambitions once, when he had first entered the Service; he could still remember the thrill of his first posting — how new and unfamiliar it all was in contrast to the routine and mundane activity which currently consumed his life.

                Samson, himself no stranger to failed ambition and self-doubt, could but sympathize: ‘Surely not, Henry! From what I have heard, the Legation could not function without you. I have the impression that Sir Francis’ best work is behind him. And what of your index? It can only be of the greatest possible value to those who come after you, as it has been for me. It does prove my point though: you must have been motivated by a similar revulsion at the two-faced nature of Greek politics.’

                Beaumont had thrown his life into his work too wholeheartedly to want to consider the result. ‘When I first came out here I was fired by a passion. I believed we could be an agency for good in this benighted region. It was obvious what Quadt and his associates were up to; we could see well enough what was happening with the German infiltration in Turkey. I began my index with the best of intentions and I do not deny it added a certain excitement to the work. But in the end, you see, nothing was ever done. The position has hardly changed as between the competing influences. The only thing that has changed is the King. Ultimately, I fear that will make all the difference. For all our talking you see, it was a bullet which brought about that change. Since then, I have come to realize that whatever we do will make little difference. Having started my card-index, I keep it going; but I am serving time. Perhaps now is the moment to consider a life outside the Service.’ He picked up the letter he had been writing and tore it in half. ‘In any event, Greek politics aside, Athens does have its attractions. You should enjoy them while you can, Major.’

                ‘You almost make it sound as if I am in danger.’

                Henry Beaumont had had enough contemplation for one day. It was time to resume his occupation: ‘It always pays to be careful. Being a foreign representative must make us targets for some of the more rabid elements, but you do not need me to tell you this. I seem to recall that you were involved in just such an incident … ’ Beaumont looked knowingly at Samson.

                ‘That was some time ago, and I think you know who my protagonist was then.’

                ‘From what you say, he is active again. I should be watchful if I were you, Major. And one more thing: I think, in the circumstances, it would be wise for you to inform the police as to your suspicions about Geroulanos. If what you say is true, he is dangerous and should be apprehended, or at the very least interrogated. Athens is a small city; there are few hiding places.’

                At that point Tommy Cuninghame burst in. ‘I say Beaumont, who the deuce is sending stuff in the Military Attaché’s cipher? This has just arrived. Nothing to do with me. It’s not on, you know. That cipher is my preserve. I shall have to report this to the Minister.’

                ‘It’s all right, Colonel,’ interjected Samson, ‘I believe it’s for me.’

                The colour had still not left Cuninghame’s cheeks: ‘It’s not all right, sir. It most certainly is not all right. You will desist from using that cipher.’

                Samson stood, snatched the cable from Cuninghame’s hand and stormed out. Cuninghame turned to Beaumont, who declared: ‘Nothing to do with me, Colonel. Still not well, I fear. I shouldn’t mention it to Sir Francis just yet.’

                Samson went straight to the Legation library, closing the door behind him, and proceeded to decipher the message from Fitzmaurice. When he had done so it proved a profound anti-climax — Fitzmaurice claimed that the evidence he had uncovered was too sensitive even for the most secret cipher. Instead, he was sending it by messenger. One of the honorary attachés attached to the Embassy had left the Golden Horn on the steamer the previous evening, but this would not arrive at the Piraeus until eight o’clock on Wednesday morning. Samson was agitated; didn’t Fitzmaurice realize how short the time was? The Major trudged wearily back to his room in Academy Street. With little else to do he retrieved, from its hiding place, the long draft report to the Foreign Office he had prepared on Sunday, detailing all the evidence against Streit and Geroulanos and his supposition regarding Venizelos, and ripped the pages into small pieces before setting light to them. He then took up his pen and began anew:

“Athens

24 June 1913

My dear Crowe,

                My investigation here is almost complete. I had all but finished an extensive dossier detailing my findings during the weeks I have been here; I have just destroyed this document. The question you originally posed is incapable of being answered. Trust can be earned; it cannot be pledged in advance. Perhaps I can form a better opinion when I speak personally to Venizelos, though I doubt it. In the meantime, I have another mission to complete. If all goes well, I should be back in Athens next week, at which time, by arrangement with Sir Francis, I will seek an appointment with the Premier. I believe I know already how he will answer my questions; neither you nor I will be any the wiser. Is he trustworthy? No more so than you or I. Is his position secure? Perhaps, so long as the activities of the German Legation can be held in check. If he falls and his place is taken by the obvious candidate, Streit, we are in no worse a position than had we trusted Venizelos and he had betrayed that trust. It could even be argued that our position is more clear cut, for we know where we stand with Streit. On the other hand, if Venizelos keeps to his professed word, we benefit.

                My advice is to be cautious; put as much trust in him as you can afford; as little as you dare. All is not yet lost for us here, though it is finely balanced. I am convinced the German Foreign Office is equally wary of Greek entanglements — they have their hands full with Turkey and Bulgaria. The Emperor is another matter. It should be possible to make capital out of a policy split in Berlin if one genuinely exists. I leave such calculations up to you. I am awaiting a confidential report from Fitzmaurice: if it supports my theory I will travel to Salonica tomorrow to confirm my hypothesis, but time is running out. My information is that Bulgaria will launch an attack through Macedonia any day now. This cannot be stopped but I believe that, with German assistance, a Greek trap has been baited. I will send in my final report next week, following the interview with Venizelos. I want, at the same time, to discuss the question of a new posting.”

When he had finished, Samson reached for his small writing case so that he could apply his seal to the report before it went off in the diplomatic bag. He opened the case and knew at once that something had changed. Although he could not immediately ascertain what was different, he was convinced that the items in the case had been handled. He went to the chest of drawers: the result was the same. It all looked as it should, but he knew the contents had been pulled out and carefully, but not quite accurately, replaced. It was not even so much a question of accuracy — somehow it just didn’t feel right. What of the dispatch he had just destroyed? It contained the complete result of his investigation — had it been discovered? He tried to remember retrieving it earlier from its hiding place: was there anything different? A floorboard creaked behind him; Samson spun round. There was no-one there. He went back to the top drawer: his revolver was still in place. Samson checked the chamber; it was fully loaded. He snapped it shut and put the gun in his jacket pocket. He needed time, and a safe place, to think.

                Now that the room had been violated, he felt uncomfortable staying there. Following the run-in with Tommy Cuninghame, he could hardly return to the Military Attaché’s suite of rooms at the Hotel d’Angleterre. The Major hurriedly packed his bag, paid the landlady for another week, and told her he was returning unexpectedly to Constantinople for a few days, but to keep his room for him. Then he hired a carriage to take him to the National Assembly, checking all the while to make sure he was not being followed. From the Parliament he caught a second cab to the Omonia Station, continually glancing back over his shoulder. At the station, he waited for a train from the Piraeus to arrive before mingling with the passengers as they emerged from the concourse. In the swirling confusion he caught a third cab, this time to his new destination, the National Museum on Patissia Road. From here he walked to his final destination, the Hotel Hermès on Proasteion Street. Of all the comfortable hotels in the city, this one alone was not situated in the main area. He again paid a week’s tariff in advance before going up to his room and locking the door behind him. Only now did he begin to feel less threatened.

                The Major lay, propped up on the bed, the revolver by his side. Other than the Legation staff, the only person who knew where he lived was Achilles, and what reason would he have for rifling through the Major’s possession, unless he were a double-agent? No, he must have been followed to the Pension; he had, after all, taken few precautions. Either it was someone from the German Legation or … Or was it Geroulanos trying to find out how much he knew. Samson checked his watch: four o’clock. Before he left early the next morning for his meeting with Fitzmaurice’s courier Samson needed to see Beaumont. He sprung out of bed in a nimble movement and retrieved a bottle of talcum powder from his valise then proceeded to spread a dusting on the floor immediately behind the door, before carefully stepping over it and locking the door behind him.

                Fifteen minutes later he found Beaumont in his usual attitude: pipe in one hand, pen in the other. Before he could say anything, Beaumont spoke: ‘You’re going to have to watch your step, Major. Death seems to follow you around.’

                ‘What on earth do you mean?’

                Beaumont brandished a copy of that evening’s newspaper: ‘Your mad assassin has been found dead in his cell. The police surgeon could not establish a cause of death.’

                ‘Geroulanos?’ queried Samson.

                ‘I don’t follow.’

                ‘According to Captain Gavronis, the police often call in Geroulanos to assist in such cases.’

                ‘Oh, I see.’ Beaumont checked the report again: ‘No, this was a … a Dr Valettas.’

                Samson hurriedly extracted his notebook for the record of his interview with Skinas. There it was, as he suspected — Valettas was one of the names mentioned by Skinas as being a member of their informal group. Was it a coincidence, or was Valettas himself part of the conspiracy? The sweet-smelling pipe smoke was making him feel ill. He closed his notebook and looked distractedly out of the window. The silence lasted fully a minute, until it was broken by Beaumont: ‘Major? Are you all right’

                ‘It’s nothing … nothing. I have …’

                Beaumont poured a glass of water and handed it to Samson. ‘Has something happened, old chap?’

                Samson sipped at the water. ‘My room has been searched. You were right: I think I may be in some danger.’

                ‘Is there any connexion with this,’ asked Beaumont, holding aloft the newspaper report.

                ‘There may be. I have taken the precaution of moving temporarily.’ The thought flashed through his mind as to whether even Beaumont himself could be trusted. Samson dismissed it; Beaumont was just how he appeared: ‘I now have a room at the Hotel Hermès, but please do not tell this to anyone; not even Sir Francis. At least not until next week. Will you give me your word?’

                ‘I shouldn’t have thought that necessary, old man.’

                ‘Of course, Henry, I do apologize.’ Samson reached inside his jacket: ‘Here is a report to go off in the bag, tonight if possible. There is one other thing. Fitzmaurice is sending a confidential report from Constantinople by courier. I intend to meet him directly off the steamer. I would prefer that he did not leave the port. Depending upon what is contained in the report, I may have to travel, at short notice, to Salonica. If that is the case, I will leave a message with the vice-consul at the Piraeus to be forwarded to you. If you should receive such a message look at the initial letters of each word. I should return within a week, maybe ten days; in case anything should happen to me, here is a letter for Sir Francis.’

                ‘My dear Lionel, what could possibly happen to you? These people depend on our support. They may not show it, but they do. I can assure you that there would be serious repercussions should any harm befall you.’

                Samson remembered the broken needle protruding from the back of Triantafyllakos. ‘What if the cause of death could not be ascertained? I am told that there are certain poisons which leave no trace. I can guarantee that, within a few days, it will be officially recorded that Skinas, a young man, suffered heart failure. Before they pronounce a similar verdict upon me I trust you will relay my suspicions to Gavronis.’

                ‘Really, Major, I suspect you are beginning to see phantoms. After all, so far as I am aware, you do not have any real evidence against Geroulanos. If you are worried, I’m sure we could spare one of the ratings from the Naval Mission to act as a bodyguard.’

                Samson snorted. ‘He’d be more of a hindrance. Besides, he would be of no use to me where I’m going.’ He handed Beaumont the report to Crowe: ‘You will make sure that goes off in the bag?’

                Samson took his leave of Beaumont and performed a similar ritual to that earlier in the day, employing three carriages to reach his hotel room. He inquired at the desk whether anyone had been asking after him; they had not. Nevertheless, he approached his own room with the revolver cocked. Opening the door and turning on the light while remaining in the corridor revealed that there was no tell-tale imprint in the powder spread on the floor. Once inside, he sent down for something to eat and, when it was delivered, locked the door and pushed a chest against it. He slept fitfully that night; finding himself awake at five o’clock he got up and prepared for his prospective journey. He left the hotel at six-thirty, was soon at the station, and caught the first train to the Piraeus. Almost immediately upon leaving the station the carriage was plunged into darkness as the train passed through a tunnel. The sudden change from light to dark caused the Major to grip the edge of the seat as he desperately narrowed his eyes to try to get them to adjust. Just as suddenly the train emerged into the day and the pale morning light temporarily blinded him. He rested easier; he was on his way.