The Traitor : A Novel by Geoffrey Miller

The harbour was thronged with ships, flying a myriad of different flags. Having ascertained that the steamer from Constantinople was on time, and expected to dock soon, Samson casually observed the port while awaiting its arrival. He could make out at least half a dozen languages being spoken by people in the immediate vicinity. In the minutes that remained to him, Samson searched for ships flying the German flag. There were five: General, of the German-East Africa Line; Mudros and Andros, of the German-Levant Line; Ambria, of the Hamburg-Amerika Line; and the collier Kawak of Hamburg, flying the house flag of Hugo Stinnes. Was it a coincidence that so many German ships were then in port; or was there a common purpose? Each one, ostensibly, looked innocent enough. Except perhaps for General: the crew seemed smarter in appearance. They jumped when orders were given; and they looked a homogeneous lot, unlike the racial mixture comprising most of the other ships’ crews. Perhaps it was the different atmosphere, away from the ever-present threat he felt in Athens. Whatever it was, Samson suddenly felt emboldened. He approached one of the sailors as he came ashore from General and, posing as a tourist from Antwerp, inquired in hesitant German as to where he might catch a ferry to Naxos. The sailor clearly had no idea. Samson feigned surprise and asked if this was the first time the sailor had been to the Piraeus. At this, the sailor carefully looked Samson up and down and, thinking he recognized a fellow traveller, lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, and assured him, ‘the first time and the last! You can keep the Greeks.’

‘I see,’ replied Samson. ‘So have you only signed on for this one voyage?’

At that point an officer intervened, ordered the sailor back on board, and curtly told Samson to go about his business. As this scene was taking place, further along the quay the Constantinople steamer had tied up and the passengers were milling around at the top of the gangway. The Major hurried to the passenger quay and at once recognized Lord Gerald Wellesley, the honorary attaché, beautifully attired in a linen suit, floral tie and wide brimmed hat, and clearly not relishing the crush waiting to disembark. When he was finally ashore, Samson accosted him and pulled him into a shed, out of sight.

The smell of the steamer was still in Lord Gerald’s nostrils and its nauseous quality was only partially offset by the perfumed handkerchief he was now holding to his nose: ‘My dear Samson, I knew you would be involved. More of your wretched cloak and dagger business, I imagine.’

‘You know how I abhor boats. The motion is as indescribable as the smell.’

‘I have no intention of sinking to your level Major. Did you expect me to disguise myself?’

‘But Gerald, your disguise is brilliant. You could be nothing other than what you pretend to be: the typical English tourist!’

‘That is a most unkind remark. I’ll have you know my promulgation has come through as Second Secretary.’

‘Oh dear, poor Louis Mallet! I don’t envy him when he arrives: just when he will need all the help he can get.’ At that, they both dissolved in laughter. Samson continued: ‘Well, what has that rogue Fitzmaurice got for me?’

Lord Gerald opened his valise and withdrew a locked dispatch box. ‘I hope this is worth all the trouble, Major. There is something afoot. Fitz. is certain of it. The Turks are quietly moving up reinforcements night and day to the armistice line.’

‘Do they know of Ferdinand’s planned move?’ Samson was sure that Fitzmaurice’s private intelligence service would have kept him well informed.

‘The Turks have ways of extracting information that would never occur to us. They are bound to take advantage of any opportunity which presents itself if the Bulgarians strike west. I daresay Ferdinand will not relish a war on two fronts. For my own, if the Turks can retake Adrianople, I shall be heartily pleased; besides, an enlarged Bulgaria is in no-one’s interests. But it is all in here; if you will just sign for it and I shall be on my way. A pleasant breakfast in a dining room which doesn’t move, followed by a hot bath and a tour of the Acropolis … ’

Wellesley reacted as if struck: ‘Whatever do you mean? What am I to do? Get back on that stinking hulk for another thirty-six hours?’

‘The railway station in Athens is watched. I believe I slipped out this morning unobtrusively, but I am afraid that you, Gerald, could not be mistaken.’

‘No, Gerald. If this report contains the information I think it does, I must leave on the first available steamer for Salonica. If you are seen and recognized in Athens you might put my plan at risk. For my sake, please return to Constantinople. If you are unable to face the return journey today, I understand the Hotel Continental here is quite acceptable. There is a French Messageries steamer departing tomorrow which should prove more comfortable; or, if you prefer, you could catch the local service to Syra, spend an enjoyable few days on the island, and then connect with the Austrian Lloyd steamer on Saturday.’

Lord Gerald carefully considered the options as Samson waited patiently. ‘Syra it is then! Though do you suppose the food will be better on the French ship?’

‘Don’t remind me. I presume you know where the local ferry departs from?’ Samson pointed out the wharf. ‘Well, good luck old man. Have you any message for Fitz.?’

‘Tell him … tell him … No matter. I’ll wait till I see him.’ They parted. Samson walked round the shore, past the ancient Kantharos and the old mole, out of the port area to the wall which formed the boundary of the Royal Gardens. The gardens, occupying all the outer headland, were not open to the public. The Major toyed with the idea of scaling the wall and finding a secluded spot to study the report before deciding that this precaution was not warranted. He found a spot near the water’s edge and sat down to read Fitzmaurice’s letter.

In answer to your query, my source from within the Ministry of War reports that a recent large sale of arms was negotiated. The weapons were originally purchased from Krupps and arrived in two consignments in July and September last year. They were delivered, as per contract, to Salonica where they were secretly stored for use by the Third Army as trouble was evidently expected, most probably from Albania. Instead the Third Army was taken by surprise by the Greek declaration of war in October. By the start of November, with both the Greek and Bulgarian armies marching on Salonica and the Third Army routed before use could be made of the new arms, it became obvious to the Turks that they would become booty to whoever first entered Salonica.

Our friend Talaat then had an inspired idea. The Turkish treasury was empty, as it always is. The war had already cost a fortune and was lost, but this cache of arms remained untouched. Talaat approached Wangenheim — only Talaat would have the steadiness of nerve to attempt such a move! — and asked the Germans to refund the purchase price, as the weapons had not been used!

(Samson agreed with Fitzmaurice that only Talaat Pasha possessed the required proportion of affront and menace to have carried off such a request. Enver would have ranted; Djemal would have threatened; but Talaat! Samson knew that Wangenheim genuinely feared the apparently genial Turk, whose massive physical bulk, like his own, was so imposing; whose grip was so powerful.)

At first Wangenheim blustered. He is very good at this. He was probably aware that, any day, either the Greeks or the Bulgarians would take Salonica and, unless they were exceptionally well hidden, capture the arms. However, if he did not humour Talaat, the next Turkish order for arms might go to Creusot or Armstrong. He therefore faced a quandary but was saved by the ingenuity of Hans Humann who just happened to be here, doing some work on the Bosphorus forts. You know what a great interest our German colleagues show in these archaeological relics! (You will not, I think, have met Humann. I knew his father well and we have always been on close terms, although sea duty has kept the son away for some time). While here, Humann spent his time on Lorelei. As his task then (whatever it was!) was unofficial, he had to remain on the stationnaire*. Now, however, as the new Naval Attaché (yes, I already knew of the appointment) he maintains an office at his Embassy.

Wangenheim must have explained the dilemma to Humann, who promptly returned to Lorelei and wired his Admiralty. As you know, the safe on board Lorelei is of primitive manufacture and presented no difficulty for my Armenian operative. (Wangenheim thought he was being clever not employing Turks as stewards.) In any event, the German code is a relatively simple one. I am sure we could eventually have broken it, but having the key undoubtedly helps!

Humann put the Turkish offer to Tirpitz. He admitted the blackmail, but argued that, if they had to refund the money, it was better that they should also retrieve the weapons so that they should not fall into the hands of the Bulgarians, whom he does not trust. For that I cannot blame him. I suspect he also does not trust the Turks, having received the refund but not yet parted with the goods, to sell the actual weapons on to either the Greeks or Bulgarians!

Imagine Humann’s surprise when he received a reply not from the State Secretary of the Navy but from the All-Highest! He was instructed that the weapons are to be bought back from the Turks and transferred out of Salonica as soon as possible, to another safe hiding place known only to the Germans. Wilhelm wanted the weapons for the Greeks but could not be sure they would take Salonica before the Bulgarians. The difficulties were almost insuperable, but it was a direct order! So Talaat was summoned to the Embassy and told the money would be repaid as soon as he revealed the precise location. That is all very well, replied the Pasha, but the weapons were bought with money borrowed at a usurious rate: as well as the original purchase price, there is the interest and also the charge for storage. I would have liked to have seen Wangenheim’s face! But what can he do? He has a direct order from the Emperor (Talaat’s impudence this makes me suspect that the Turks have also raided the safe on board Lorelei, but that is another matter).

Wangenheim agreed, but did not want the responsibility should the scheme miscarry; so he handed it over to poor Humann. Now the most obvious method of removing the arms would be by ship — but there is another problem, it is too obvious. Strangely marked crates being loaded on to a German merchant ship could not but fail to arouse suspicion.

Here, alas, my story ends. Salonica, at the time, was still a stronghold of the Committee* and it was difficult for my agents to operate freely. By the first week of November the situation was beyond control — the invading armies were at the very gates of the city. Humann was there also, for he was seen, though not Hoffmann (my best agent can feel the presence of Hoffmann!). The only clue I have is that a special train was organized on the night of 5 November, three days before the fall of the city. It had a heavy armed guard: no uniforms, but all speaking German! My agent attempted to board the train, innocently claiming he had to escape the city, but he was roughly thrown off. The train was last seen heading north that night.

How the arms stand to figure in current events I cannot say. I do know that every night the Turks are moving troops up to Tchatalja in preparation for what looks likely to be a major offensive. I have received indications that Ferdinand is planning to move against his erstwhile allies (I always suspected it was a marriage of convenience). If that is so, he is likely to be doubly surprised. If he thinks the Turks will dare not cross the Tchatalja lines he is in for a rude awakening. The Powers will protest of course, but between Turkey and Bulgaria who are they to choose? It is Enver’s burning ambition to recover Adrianople; he will not be thwarted, Major.

I am sending this by way of Gerald. If we can decipher German cables I dare not trust its transmission by wireless. And, if we can rifle the safe on Lorelei who is to say that the same has not been done on Imogen? If I know Gerald, he will want to linger a few days in Athens. Do not let him; he is required here! I have a feeling all hell is about to break loose.”

When he had finished, Samson knew what he had to do. He had never been particularly adept at obvious disguise and derided those who made the attempt. False beards and such paraphernalia only drew attention to oneself; it was a fiction, to be left to the likes of Sherlock Holmes. Samson’s very ordinariness was his greatest asset. Of average height and average build (though this was how he thought of himself; in reality he was somewhat shorter and, now that his appetite had returned, somewhat heavier than the average) Samson was at once instantly forgettable. If he needed a disguise, he left it to his facility with languages, as demonstrated by the episode earlier that morning. To the bored young German sailor, he was no more nor less than what he seemed: an affluent, if ill prepared, tourist from Belgium. Samson had deliberately selected Antwerp as he knew it reasonably well and, with his cultured accent, was not likely to be caught out. On the occasion he had pretended to be a native of Liège he was almost tripped up by his lack of knowledge of one of the town’s most prominent features. Only the chance intervention of a charming lady who had just been separated from her pocketbook and needed assistance had saved him from being unmasked.

As the German ships in the harbour made ready to sail, Samson ascertained that the next regular steamer service for Salonica would not depart till that evening. He dare not risk trying to obtain passage on one of the German ships; he was sure, in any event, that he would be told no space was available. There was nothing for it but to wait. He thought briefly of returning to Athens, where at least he could rest in his hotel room, but decided the risk was too great. Instead, he stretched himself out in a shaded location near the Royal Park and retrieved Winwood Reade’s Matyrdom of Man from his valise. Time slowed. He tried hard to avoid looking at his pocket watch but found it was impossible; and when he did the hands seemed hardly more advanced. Despite the shade the heat became oppressive, tempered only by the faintest of sea breezes. Rather than being invigorated all this did was to assail his nostrils with the rancid smells of the harbour. Following a late lunch at a nearby café, Samson returned to the Quay to collect his ticket. He then called on MacDonnell, the British Consul, and left a message — Arriving via railway. Expect to have informative sojourn. Send all regards — to be forwarded to Beaumont before returning to his shaded location.

He felt keenly that it had been a wasted day. Somewhere to the north great forces were on the march. If wholesale fighting once more erupted throughout the Balkans could this be the time when it finally escalated, dragging in the Great Powers? If Fitzmaurice was right the Turks would not hesitate to move against Bulgaria while Ferdinand moved against Greece and Serbia. With Germany backing Turkey officially and Greece unofficially, and Russia the patron of the Serbs, the prospective annihilation of any of the Balkan states could trigger a major intervention. It would be best for all concerned should the Bulgarians be swiftly and unequivocally defeated. Was this part of the German scheme to delay the greater war until they were fully prepared?

The Thessalian Line steamer pulled away from the dock that night with Samson firmly locked in his cabin. He felt oddly secure, cocooned in that small, dripping space, and he badly needed rest. He dined late on some bread and cheese he had brought aboard and, unlike Gerald Wellesley, found the incessant movement of the steamer, with its slow languorous roll and rhythmical pitch, comforting and restful. Throughout Thursday he kept to himself. A few people unsuccessfully attempted to strike up a conversation. To those who did Samson kept to the same story: that he was suffering from some obscure disease for which no cure was readily apparent, but the worst effects of which were alleviated by sea air. The story fulfilled its function. Wary lest the disease might still be contagious the people he talked to avoided him thereafter. From an isolated corner of the main salon Samson collated his notes with no great enthusiasm. He had perversely enjoyed the certainty of Adrianople; here there were too many “ifs”.

At dinner that night he found himself seated between a Greek businessman and a French tourist. The Greek was clearly pleased; his business interests in Salonica had been badly hit by the war the previous October and only now were things returning to normal. The prospects, he assured Samson, were propitious; the Major did not demur. The Frenchman claimed to be a tourist but did not look like one. It was nothing much: a word dropped here, an opinion voiced, the fact of his travelling alone. Samson cynically guessed he was a representative of a French armaments combine. The Military Mission in Athens, under French control, was, he knew, constantly being pressured by Paris to procure orders for the latest French ordnance; however the French wanted all such transactions completed on a commercial basis and refused to offer subsidies, unlike the German Government. Or possibly the Frenchman represented one of his country’s submarine builders. Samson knew from his conversation with Alec Summers of the Naval Mission how keen the Greek officers were to purchase the latest submarines, having become the first nation successfully to launch a torpedo, while submerged, against an enemy ship, when they had fired one against a Turkish vessel in the recent war. (The success was solely in launching the torpedo; it had not struck home.) The politicians, however, wanted battleships for the prestige value. The Frenchman certainly bore the look of disappointment; of a failed mission. Samson could recognize the symptoms only too clearly. For the unsuccessful salesman it would be a long trip back to Paris; plenty of time to brood upon what he would say to his superiors.

Finding it difficult to cloak his movements, at one point during the meal the Frenchman extracted the information from Samson that the Major might travel on to Belgrade and, from there, to Trieste. ‘But this is excellent,’ declared the Frenchman, ‘I have to travel up to Nish to connect with the Orient Express. We could travel together. It is a slow, tedious trip from Salonica to Nish.’

Caught out, Samson was forced hurriedly to invent a spurious excuse for remaining in Salonica for a few days, whereas the Frenchman was planning to depart on the first available train. Upon hearing that Samson would be in Salonica at least over the weekend the Frenchman became exceedingly solicitous. ‘I cannot tell you how I know,’ he cautioned Samson, ‘but I advise you not to linger in the city.’

‘Let us just say that I have connexions in Athens, and believe me it will not be a safe place for tourists; not for a week or two, at least.’ The Greek on his other side was noisily consuming the remnants of his meal, unaware that his recently restored prosperity was in danger of being ruined once more.

Samson remained unconcerned: ‘You seem particularly well informed. What is the nature of the danger: not another outbreak of disease?’

The Frenchman shook his head at such ignorance: ‘The Greeks have just won a war. The scent of victory has carried them away. They want more victories, more territory. It is understandable, perhaps; and they can do it — but it needs a man like Metaxas to carry it through. In five years all of Southern Albania, European Turkey and the hinterland around Smyrna will be Greek. This is what the Greeks want, though they also want it without the need for too much fighting. While Venizelos weaves his schemes to involve my country and yours to fulfil his great dream only Metaxas understands what is really wanted. I can tell you, as I know it will go no further, that I am in fact an agent for a certain type of submarine. It is the best on the market.’ Samson feigned an expression of hurt surprise. ‘Oh, no, my friend. Your English “E” class boats are good, I do not deny. But ours, well, with them the Greeks could control absolutely the Aegean. Not a Turkish warship could leave the Dardanelles without the danger of its being torpedoed. For the price of one battleship the Greeks could have ten submarines. Metaxas sees this.’

‘Precisely! Politicians serve a purpose in my country and yours, but the Balkans? They require military men to rule them. It is a fault in their nature. They will come to see this eventually; until then I must return to my office without the order I expected, and wait.’

‘You will see. I cannot say any more. But do not stay in Salonica any longer than is necessary.’

Samson thanked his companion and, after a walk around the deck, turned in. Clearly the Greeks were being kept well informed by the German Legation but unless it was also meant as a friendly warning to the French arms’ representative, Samson was appalled at the lack of security. Quadt would be furious if he knew that the information he had supplied was being casually bandied about in such a fashion.

At seven o’clock the next morning, the steward brought Samson a cup of vile coffee and advised him that they would be docking in an hour’s time. Samson waited in his cabin until well after the docking procedures had been completed, at which time he walked briskly down the gangway and along the Quay. There was one thing he could do while in Salonica and that was to interview the Magistrate who had dealt with Skinas. But he had wasted too much time already. Ferdinand might attack at any moment, and he was not yet at his destination. The Magistrate could wait until he returned. Samson hailed a carriage for the railway station and ascertained that the first train north would leave in half an hour. He waited in a deserted corner of the station until the appointed time, only boarding the train at the last possible moment. He occupied the first available seat and stared sullenly out of the window as the last tatty buildings disappeared from sight. The railway headed west out of the town before veering round to the north to follow the course carved out by the River Vardar.

With nothing better than open country to look at initially Samson day-dreamed, until he was jolted out of his musing by a familiar voice: ‘Monsieur Samson, this is a pleasant surprise. So you have decided to take my advice and travel north after all.’ Samson groaned inwardly at being accosted by the French arms’ representative. ‘Believe me, it was a wise move. Salonica will soon not be a healthy place — not that it ever was of course! But this is fortunate. As I said, it is a slow and tedious journey. I will collect my luggage and then we may pass the time agreeably.’

Samson had to think fast; he had to come up with a plausible excuse for leaving the train at the closest stop to Avret Hissar. He reasoned that Colonel Metaxas might have divulged the information regarding the imminent Bulgarian attack to impress the Frenchman or to warn him against staying in Salonica; but he was hardly likely to divulge the secret of Avret Hissar. The Frenchman returned.

‘Here, mon ami. I took the precaution of buying these while waiting at the station.’ He extracted a stale loaf and a nondescript piece of cheese. Samson had had no more than coffee that morning but didn’t feel like sharing the Frenchman’s food. Such an action, he considered, would result in an intangible bond being established between them.

As the Frenchman enjoyed his late breakfast Samson decided to make his play: ‘I’m afraid I am not travelling all that far. I was happy to accept your advice about Salonica, but I have decided to spend some time at Avret Hissar. I understand there are some interesting archaeological ruins in the vicinity in addition to the famous castle.’

There was no response from the Frenchman to the mention of the town to indicate recognition: ‘Avret Hissar? I do not know it.’

Samson produced a map and pointed out his new destination. Almost without thinking, the Frenchman ran a finger over the map, starting just north of Serres, and following what Samson took to be the planned line of the Bulgarian advance. The nicotine stained finger paused briefly at Avret Hissar then followed the line south to Salonica. The Frenchman was lost in thought for a moment and seemed on the point of venturing a comment but thought to himself that he had already warned the Englishman and there were only so many warnings that could be delivered. If this foolish chap wanted to be caught out in heavy fighting that was his business.

Once the Frenchman had absolved himself of responsibility for Samson’s welfare they chatted amiably until it was time for Samson to depart. The Frenchman gave him his personal card and asked Samson to call should he ever be in Paris. Although, in the end, he had enjoyed the company, Samson felt invigorated to be by himself once more. He had his own instincts to trust; events followed from his own decisions. He soon hired a horse and completed with provisions, then set out for Avret Hissar, planning to camp somewhere out of the town that evening and then spend the following day scouting the area.

* A vessel or large yacht attached to each of the major embassies.

* The Committee of Union and Progress, which holds real and absolute power at the Porte.

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