Chapter 25 : A New Beginning

The colour was slowly returning to Major Samson’s face; his breathing was less laboured and it was now only with difficulty that one was able to detect the rasping wheeze which had once been such a feature of his speech. As was their custom, Beaumont had relieved Rachel Summers following her afternoon duty at the clinic. He had seen too much of Samson over the preceding weeks not to recognize the signs but it was only now, when he had other news to impart, that Beaumont felt able to broach the subject.

                ‘Lionel, if I say something as a friend, I trust you will not take offence.’

                ‘It’s all right, Henry. I think I know what is coming. But you will not need to deliver your homily: you see, I’ve decided to return to Constantinople … alone. Rachel and I have talked of the future — you note, I say “the future” and not “our future” — and I flatter myself that, if asked, she may have decided to accompany me. But I cannot ask her, you see. Her future is with Alec. I have been a distraction and I carry too much baggage with me.’

                ‘Edith?’

                ‘How on earth … ?’

                ‘You mentioned her when you were delirious.’

                ‘Did I say … ?’

                ‘It is quite all right, old man. You said nothing to be ashamed of; you need have no fear on that score.’

                ‘Thank you, Henry. Do you think Rachel is aware?’

                Beaumont hesitated: ‘I believe …’

                ‘Yes, Henry?’

                ‘I believe she is.’

                ‘Oh, I see. No matter. Aravantinos has declared me fit enough to travel, so long as the mode of transport is not too rigorous. So I intend to catch the steamer next week for the Golden Horn. I think also the change of scenery will do me good.’

                ‘And the change of faces?’

                ‘I shall miss you all. And you in particular, Henry, more than I care to admit.’

                ‘In that case, I am happy to say here is one face you will still be seeing.’ Samson’s expression was blank. Beaumont continued: ‘Marling has had enough of Constantinople and has decided to return to England. The climate at the Porte is obviously not to his liking and his stint as Chargé d’Affaires before Mallet’s arrival was the last straw. I had not told you before, but new posting came through last week: it was to have been Tokyo, of all places. I have been waiting for the right moment to tell you.’

                ‘And now you are not going to Japan?’

                ‘I have to say I am quite relieved at the prospect! Mallet is single and has specifically requested a married Counsellor for the Embassy; it has been decided therefore that I am to take Marling’s place.’

                ‘My dear Henry! I am pleased for you. This is a big step up, is it not?’

                ‘It is as far as I had ever thought I could advance in the service, Lionel. Now, if all goes well, it is just possible I could progress to Minister of one of the smaller Legations before I retire.’

                ‘When are you to leave?’

                ‘As soon as possible. Mallet having arrived straight from the Foreign Office has only been a few weeks in the post and has never held a diplomatic position before. Whatever else might be said, it is a political appointment: Mallet’s task is to appease the Turks and buy some time. You know we have turned down the latest Turkish approach for an alliance yet again? Reading between the lines, I would not be surprised if Mallet also has instructions to constrain Fitzmaurice’s influence. The Dragoman has become a law unto himself and has succeeded in alienating most of the leaders of the Committee. Lowther, towards the end, proved incapable of controlling him.’

                ‘Lowther stayed out there too longer than was wise. Even so, had he remained, I rather suspected that Enver’s unchecked ascent would result in Fitzmaurice’s decline. Fitz. has had a good run. It should be time now to hand over to young Ryan, though I daresay Fitz. will resist all efforts. Can you be ready to leave Athens next week?’ inquired Samson, anxious to make the journey now that he had made up his mind.

                ‘Probably — apart from Admiral Kerr’s arrival, it is very quiet at the Legation. My replacement is due here any day now.’

                ‘Who is it to be?’

                ‘The Honourable William Erskine. I doubt you will have heard of him. He is the second son of the Earl of Mar and Kellie. A grand title, isn’t it! Other than that I know little about him. He has recently been the Chargé d’Affaires in Stockholm, but our paths have never crossed before. That reminds me, our new Admiral believes he knows you from his days as the Naval Attaché at the Porte.’

                Samson adjusted his pillow. ‘Kerr? The name is not familiar. When was that?’

                ‘Nine years ago.’

                ‘Way before my time, Henry. I wonder why he thinks he should know me?’ Samson wanted no part of Crowe’s latest assignment. If Churchill really was up to something that was his business. It was one thing spying on a possible enemy; quite another to investigate a colleague.

By his third day in Athens Admiral Kerr felt he could no longer reasonably postpone the meeting with Venizelos. It was fixed for late that afternoon, at the nearby Ministry of Finance, where the Premier had earlier had a meeting with his Finance Minister. It was uncomfortably warm for September, even for Athens. The room set aside for the meeting was small, wood panelled, and unbearably stuffy. Spare in frame, Kerr felt unduly oppressed by the weight of expectation — his full dress uniform soaked up the perspiration, leaving him feeling steamed and more prickly than usual. Even so, he approached the meeting with an open mind: after all, he already knew the King well from earlier meetings; he had formed an instant liking for Stratos; and now, he had convinced himself that, despite what he had read, he was prepared to give Venizelos the benefit of the doubt. However the Admiral’s good intentions did not survive the first meeting. Like all famous people, in person the Premier was somewhat smaller than Kerr had imagined, but with an outsize head, the effect of which was further exaggerated by a neat grey beard. A pair of gold rimmed glasses, resting lightly on the prominent bridge of a prominent nose, completed the effect of a slightly malevolent, watchful, yet wise old owl. Kerr saw, however, not wisdom but deviousness.

                ‘Admiral Kerr, how good of you to find time from your busy schedule.’ His manner of speaking was such that Kerr could not tell if this was an implied rebuke or not. ‘I understand you have been working on a plan which you hoped to complete before our meeting. I trust you have made progress on it?’

                How had Venizelos learned of this, thought Kerr — through one of the Legation Staff or Stratos? In case it was not Stratos, Kerr felt constrained to avoid referring to the Mytilene plan: ‘Yes, Sir. It is a plan for destroyer flotillas to work hand in glove with our new submarines. It is a paradox perhaps, but the Dardanelles provides Greece with a priceless advantage and it is this. With adequate patrols, no Turkish ship can ever emerge from the Straits unnoticed. With permanent bases at Imbros and Tenedos we could bottle up the Turkish Fleet in the Sea of Marmora for all time. It would even be possible, should war ever break out, to try to lay a mine field across the Straits; though I am forced to admit that, with such an operation, the strong current would be against us. It would be a difficult operation at night to get close enough in. The guns of the forts are old and decrepit now, but … ’

                Venizelos nodded patiently; he had little time for tactics. ‘And where does the dreadnought feature in your plans, Admiral?’

                ‘It doesn’t, Sir. The narrow waters of the Aegean are no place for a dreadnought.’

                The Premier looked astonished; it was an unaccustomed look, which would not have been recognized by his own staff: ‘Do you know, Admiral, the sacrifice my people have had to make to be able to commission Salamis? Do you appreciate the cost to the Exchequer; to the ordinary Greek peasant who is, to put it bluntly, not even mildly interested in naval affairs?’

                ‘I have my opinion, Sir. But an opinion formed over many close hours of study of this question, with many of my English colleagues. If I had been in Athens at the time the contract was awarded, I would have advised against it. As it is, unless you wish to try to sell the ship while it is still on the stocks, we will have to make as good use of her as we can.’

                ‘And what of … ’ The Premier cut his sentence off abruptly, delicately removed his spectacles, and slowly polished them with a handkerchief produced from the sleeve of his frock coat. He pinched the bridge of his nose before repositioning the glasses. ‘So, if we were to acquire any other vessel, before Salamis, it would also have no place in your scheme of things?’

                ‘If that vessel happened to be a new flotilla of destroyers or a squadron of submarines, I would welcome it gladly; even another cruiser would not go amiss. I would suggest however that any consideration of a more substantial purchase should be delayed pending the finalization of my plans.’

                ‘I see, Admiral. You would have no regrets then if our enemies were to acquire such a vessel? You could guarantee a Greek victory in any event?’

                ‘The Turks are having trouble enough meeting the payments on their own dreadnought, Sir. I do not see how they could hope to finance anything else. Besides, if I may say so, you have rather missed the point of my plan.’ Venizelos bridled at the suggestion. Kerr continued without noticing: ‘It is to avoid a fleet encounter. A fleet-in-being is a useful concept, Sir, but not if its egress is denied. Look at it this way: no matter how strong the Russian Black Sea Fleet may become, of what use it is? Who can it threaten? Where can it go? The only exit to the open sea involves traversing the Bosphorus and Dardanelles — an impossible feat if the Turks do not allow it. So the Russians are marooned in the Black Sea by the Turks and they, in turn, can be marooned in the Marmora by the Greeks, using mines and torpedoes. The whole idea is to prevent the Turkish ships emerging at all. To be sure of that we need a dozen submarines always on duty at our forward bases. I tell you, Sir, this is the future of naval warfare. I’d rather have a dozen submarines under my command than a single battleship. Let the Turks bankrupt themselves; let Reshadieh steam out next year from England.’ Without realizing it, Kerr’s voice had slowly become raised throughout the conversation: ‘I tell you, Sir, she will have a very tricky passage if there is any trouble between Greece and Turkey.’

                To compensate for the Admiral’s hectoring tone, Venizelos deliberately lowered his voice: ‘What you suggest, Admiral, would be an act of war. And one in which we would be seen as the aggressors. We would forfeit the support of the Entente Powers at a stroke. I warn you, Admiral, there must be no further thinking along those lines. If we are to become embroiled with the Turks, it must be over a subject of my choosing, and only after we have secured the backing of France and England. Do you understand?’ Kerr remained silent. ‘Is that understood?’ Venizelos demanded. Kerr nodded, but did not speak. ‘I think, Admiral, it would be best if I drafted a short letter on the subject for you to sign. I will send it around to the Legation tomorrow, with a covering note to Sir Francis.’

                Kerr turned to depart and, as he did so, the Premier broke into a broad grin. ‘Come, let us not start this way. There is much that needs to be done and so little time. Go back and work on your excellent plans — but do make room in them for a dreadnought.’ Venizelos escorted Kerr to the door and saw him on his way. As soon as the door was closed behind the Admiral, the smile disappeared from the Premier’s face. He walked across the room to the connecting door and bade the Minister of Finance into the room. ‘Well, Mavrikos? We have a problem on our hands. Having complained about Admiral Tufnell I cannot now complain about his replacement — not until such time as Kerr puts a foot wrong.’

                ‘And what of the negotiations with the French?’ inquired the Finance Minister.

                ‘They are to continue. The main thing is to get the loan. I will send a personal message to Poincaré insisting that the term be extended to cover the additional amount we are now seeking. If Kerr is right, and there is no real need for Rio de Janeiro, then we can put the additional sum to some good purpose elsewhere. But as far as the French are concerned, it is a vital national interest that we acquire this dreadnought.’

Although a small city, Mark Kerr was still unfamiliar with the layout of Athens and took some time to locate the clinic of Dr Aravantinos. The last vestige of the late summer heatwave had broken overnight, with the advent of a violent thunderstorm. From his hotel room, Kerr had watched, transfixed, as the streaks of white light briefly illuminated the Parthenon. It was like watching the flickering images of a Kinematograph. He had stood by the rattling window pane for hours until the storm eventually moved away to expend its energy over the Aegean. Despite his less than successful interview with the Premier, the Admiral felt the storm to be an omen; a new beginning. And now, as he walked along Asclepius Street, it was with a profound sense of his own destiny. A few months ago he had been a very small part of a very large machine; now he was in charge of his own machine. He would form the Greek Navy into his own mould.

                The clinic was an unassuming building and, for that reason, the Admiral did not want any fuss or deference shown to him. He announced himself simply as ‘Mark Kerr’, and was shown to Major Samson’s room. But, where he had expected an invalid, pallid and torpid, the Major was seated at a simple pine desk, penning a letter. On the bed, which was made, rested an open, half-full, suitcase.

                ‘Major Samson? Please do forgive this intrusion. My name is Kerr. I have come to take over the running of the Naval Mission.’

                Now that he had made up his mind to go, Samson wanted nothing more to do with Athens. Nevertheless, as far as the Major believed, Kerr clearly thought he knew him: ‘Oh, yes, Admiral. I am pleased to meet you. Beaumont has told me of your appointment, and also of the fact that you believe we might have met before. I am afraid my memory is growing rapidly suspect these days.’

                ‘I was at Stamboul for some time in 1904 as Attaché … ’

                Samson knew at once that he had never seen Kerr beofre. Indeed, if anything was designed to arouse the Major’s curiosity, it was Kerr’s artless approach. ‘Let me see,’ Samson replied, after affecting to cast his mind back, ‘1904? I believe I was at Alexandretta for most of that year; and possibly Smyrna. If I did get to Constantinople, it would only have been for a fleeting visit. I am sorry, Admiral … ’

                ‘No matter, no matter: the main thing now is that you are obviously on the mend. I look forward to us working together for the good of Greece, Major. If you would be kind enough to inform me of your function here and all the other information you think I should knw, it would be of the greatest assistance to me in my task. Could we perhaps start with your impressions of Venizelos? Will he be straight with me? I have heard talk of Greek designs on Asia Minor — is there any truth in this?’

                Samson was becoming more intrigued by the Admiral’s transparent line of questioning. Perhaps Crowe was right and Churchill was up to mischief. Nevertheless, Samson’s former decision still held. There was one simple way to end the interview: ‘Hasn’t Beaumont told you? I am returning to Constantinople next week. In any event, it is General Eydoux of the French Military Mission you need to work with. I am sure he will be able to provide a better appraisal of the Premier. Besides, my job as assistant Military Attaché is to report events, Admiral; not to precipitate them.’

                Kerr was taken aback: ‘I’m sorry Samson. But this is a great pity. I assumed your posting here was official.’

                ‘No, Admiral, just temporary. Colonel Cuninghame is the permanent Military Attaché. My task was simply to report on events arising from the recent wars. Now that the Bucharest Treaty has been signed, my job here is at an end. I am going to accompany Beaumont to Constantinople next week and there consider my future.’

                ‘So Beaumont is leaving also?’

                ‘Yes, his posting is official. A replacement Counsellor is required at the Embassy to fill a vacancy.’ For the first time, Samson had a good look at Kerr: the spare frame, of small proportions; an unremarkable face but with an air of inner turmoil, as if most of his nervous energy was expended keeping his own emotions in check. Samson’s streak of cynicism, the product of a decade in the Levant, had been accentuated by his stint in Athens; while he did not admire the Admiral for his well-intentioned enthusiasm, he could not blame him for it either. ‘I am sorry, Admiral, if I sound a trifle short. It has been a difficult time for me. Truth to tell, I shall be exceedingly glad to see the back of Athens. I like to deal in certainties, moral and otherwise. I find too much that is ambiguous here. I wish you luck. I am afraid I know nothing of the new First Secretary, but Rendel is a good chap, who can be trusted. The Minister himself likes a quiet life and will, I believe, leave you alone to get on. Colonel Cuninghame and I did not see eye to eye, so I shall say no more on that score. Have they fixed you up with somewhere to live?’

                ‘Yes — I found a house in Patissia Road yesterday, with Goodhart’s assistance. Quite modest, but admirable for the purpose.’

                ‘Patissia Road?’ queried Samson.

                ‘Yes, why do you know it?’

                ‘I’m sure you will be comfortable,’ answered Samson, dodging the question.

                An awkward pause ensued as Samson remained seated at his desk with his Swan pen still hovering over the blank sheet of paper he had quickly used to cover the letter he had been writing when Kerr had entered. Slowly, imperceptibly at first, a drop of ink had formed under the point of the nib until, breaking away, it fell on to the paper.

                Kerr watched, as another drop began to form. ‘Please, do not let me disturb you, Major. I hope I shall see you again before you depart. Oh, yes — by the way, you are not related to Charles Samson from the Naval Air Service are you? ’

                ‘No, Admiral: I am the first of my line of Samsons to enter any branch of the service. If I had my time over again …’

                ‘Yes?’

                ‘Oh, nothing.’

                Once he was satisfied that Kerr had left the building Samson put aside his latest letter to Crowe and wrote a short note to Achilles. The Major had had no knowledge of his informant’s activities since their last meeting, before he had left for Salonica late in June. Until Kerr’s mention of Patissia Road, Samson had barely thought of Achilles during his convalescence. For Samson could not think of Achilles without also thinking of his brother, and the haunting vision of the last scream before he was suffocated by the earth. It was a vision Samson now shared. At first his memory of the night in the trench had been obliterated. Then an image, which made little sense on its own, would flash across his thoughts. The images multiplied, jumbled at first, and it took time to put them together in some sort of coherent order. When he finally succeeded in doing so, Samson realized it was the same vision he had already been experiencing, except that this time it was himself uttering the scream. When the German shell had exploded, the trench had collapsed in on him. Samson, too, had been buried; he, too, had screamed as the earth closed around him. The fate of Achille’s brother was to be his fate. It was only at the last possible moment, when his good lung was close to bursting, that he had been dug out. He did not, by meeting Achilles, wish to relive that nightmare. Nevertheless, although the Major wanted, desperately, to escape Athens, there was one loose end which needed tying: the last part of the puzzle, to which he hoped Achilles by now had the answer. Was Metriticicas, the Greek agent working for the Germans, Colonel Metaxas, as he suspected? He had to know.

                Still not yet fully recovered, the Major felt well enough to attempt the walk to Patissia Road; he could not trust giving the note to a third party. Besides, he was bored with the constant antiseptic odour of the clinic; a change of air would do him good. The choice of a meeting place remained a problem: it had to be in the evening, and not too far from the clinic. Before Asclepius Street petered out at the base of Lycabettus, a large, wooded park abutted its southern side. For Achilles, a rendezvous in the park would involve only a slight detour on his route home from his job at the German Legation on Academy Street. If he were under any suspicion, such a detour could be easily explained, while the park itself was far enough away from the Legation so as to give Achilles ample chance to spot anyone following him. Samson would wait in the park every evening at eight o’clock for the next five days; this was all the time he had.