Chapter 26 : The Notebook

Achilles did not come on the first night; nor on the second. After waiting half an hour on the third night the Major, feeling the cold, decided he was wasting his time; something must have happened at the Legation. Perhaps Achilles’ brother’s death had been avenged; perhaps he had been apprehended or dismissed. Even this did not seem to matter any more. Within a few days he would be on his way to Constantinople, and from there … His current mood fluctuated from optimism to despair. As the time neared for his departure he consciously willed himself that the change of surroundings would lead to a change in his personal fortunes. But he knew deep down, in the moments when he made an effort to see himself clearly, that Constantinople was not in itself an answer to his problems. There was a coldness in his heart, and he had succumbed to its numbing grip.

                As he strolled out of the woods and approached Asclepius Street a voice called softly to him. He turned, but could see no-one. The wind blew along the dark street at his back. As he turned back, the voice came again, slightly more insistent. The Major shivered uncontrollably, wrapped his cloak firmly around him against the chilling wind, and walked hesitatingly to where he perceived the voice to be coming from. Once he had left the soft yellow umbrella of the light from the gas lamp on the pavement, the Major felt a frisson of fear in the enveloping darkness. Still, he walked on, until, finally:

                ‘Here, Major, please. Hurry!’ It was Achilles.

                ‘I had almost given you up.’ Samson could not but fail to notice the change in his demeanour. Before he had spoken it was obvious Achilles had come begrudgingly to the rendezvous

                ‘And I also had almost given you up, as you say, until I get your note.’

                ‘I am sorry,’ the Major apologized half-heartedly. ‘You will appreciate, in the circumstances …’

                Achilles snorted. ‘A wonderful expression, Major, “in the circumstances”. You think it absolves you?’

                Samson could not understand his informant’s attitude: ‘Never mind about me. Have you made any progress with the identity of Metriticicas?’

                ‘Is that what you want to know? You are almost responsible for my death and all you are worried about is your precious god-damned traitor.’

                ‘I don’t understand.’ Samson was genuinely puzzled by this outburst.

                Achilles was trying his best to keep his voice down; he was not succeeding. ‘Your god-damned notebook, Major, your accursed notebook!’

                Samson’s shoulders slumped visibly: ‘My notebook … ’ was all he could utter as his voice trailed off and was caught by the wind.

                ‘Your notebook will do for us all. “Do not take notes” you always tell me — you should have taken your own advice! On the day after the war started Quadt got a cable to say you had been shot by Hoffmann and were expected to die. I thought then that if you were not conscious you might not talk and so could not give me away. I tell you Major I almost prayed you would die for my sake. But that was as nothing. A week after, a courier brought a small package for Quadt. He seemed to know what it was. I paid no attention at first; I was still waiting for news of you from the hospital. Quadt snatched the package from the man who had brought it and started to tear at the wrapping. Even then I was not curious. Quadt was so excited now he did not even go to his room, but opened the box in the entrance hall, right under my nose. He is almost crying for joy now: inside is the accursed notebook taken from your breast pocket at Avret Hissar. Didn’t I warn you it would cause trouble? Can you imagine what feelings went through my head? I thought as soon as Quadt opened that book and saw what is inside, my life was over.’

                ‘But I never referred to you by name,’ Samson ventured limply.

                ‘There was no need, Major. Quadt would not suspect for a moment any German of betraying him. No, it would have to be one of the Greeks, and one who is always around to overhear things. I would be suspect number one. Already there had been another cable received, before the package arrived, that Hoffmann was coming back to Athens to rest as he, too, had been injured. But no, I thought, he isn’t coming back to rest but to do away with the spy. I thought of running away, but Greece is a small country. Hoffmann would find me eventually. I was trapped like any animal.’

                ‘But you are here, now.’

                ‘Only by a stroke of good fortune, such as perhaps I did not deserve. As Quadt hurried to examine the package, I was on the point of being sick when, suddenly, his expression changed. He had a look of disgust. He is a squeamish little toad! It was your notebook good enough, but it was covered with your blood. All the pages were soaked with it. If I am honest, even I did not feel so good when I saw it after Quadt had let it drop on the table. You must have lost a lot of blood Major. Quadt called von Falkenhausen, who is not put off by such things. He opened the cover and it was only then I breathed a sigh of relief. I heard him curse. Two things saved us, Major. The pages were completely stuck together by dried blood and what could be seen on the first page was in code.’

                ‘Cipher,’ protested Samson.

                ‘Cipher, code, what’s the difference? Falkenhausen can make out something on the first page, which does not make sense to him, but when he tries to turn the page he tears it. It is impossible to open any other pages.’

                ‘Thank God for that!’

                ‘No, Major, it is not over yet. There was nothing that could be done that day, but the Germans did not give up. They tried throughout the next day to remove the worst of the blood but only succeeded in doing more damage. At last I was feeling more hopeful. This is always unwise. For then Karo paid his daily visit and asked what the commotion was. Quadt explained. Karo is more used to cleaning marble and stone than paper, but there is someone at the Archaeological Institute who has been trained in such things. “Give it to me,” announced Karo grandly, “and you shall have your secrets within a week.” ’

                ‘When was this?’

                For the first time Achilles allowed himself a smile: ‘July, Major. Since then my heart has missed a beat every time Karo enters the building but I am sure that it has defeated him still; otherwise I would have heard. It was stupid of him to boast so. I have never seen the notebook since, so it must still be in the Institute. Do we try to get it back?’

                Samson did not respond immediately; at last he spoke: ‘And what of Metriticicas?’

                Achilles’ face registered a look of disgust; this was all he was really interested in. ‘Nothing, Major. When I heard you were shot I thought the game was up. Things were getting too dangerous. The people I had spoken to were dying.’ Samson thought of poor Triantafyllakos. ‘I had to keep quiet and mind my own business. I could take no chances. I don’t listen at doors any more. I do my job and no more. Sometimes, it is true, I overhear things but that cannot be helped. I heard the name again, but that is all. Just the name — not who it is.’

                Samson tried his surmise: ‘Could it be Colonel Metaxas?’

                Achilles, who had wanted no more to do with spying, was genuinely intrigued by this suggestion. ‘Colonel Metaxas, let me see.’

                He scratched his chin and was deep in contemplation when Samson interrupted his thoughts: ‘Was there any time when Metaxas was there and the name “Metriticicas” was used? They would hardly refer to him to his face using the code name.’

                ‘I’m thinking, Major. You might just be on to something. Sure, it might be! Now that you’re back we can start again. I haven’t been paid for two months you know. We get back in harness, yes?’

                Samson looked away deliberately. ‘No, we don’t,’ he answered at last. ‘I am leaving for Constantinople soon. My job here is finished.’

                ‘Constantinople?’ repeated Achilles, sounding each syllable separately. ‘Your job is finished — what of mine? What am I to do, Major? Once Karo has finished working on your notebook I am as good as dead. Don’t talk to me about being paid for taking a risk. It was because of you and your book that I am to be exposed.’

                ‘Are there guards around the Archaeological Institute?’ queried Samson.

                ‘No guards, but a Greek watchman stays there overnight, and I think some of the staff have rooms upstairs. What are you thinking?’

                ‘Meet me here tomorrow night at the same time.’

The Honourable William Erskine, the second son of the Earl of Mar and Kellie was ushered into Henry Beaumont’s office with an almost reverential air by Sir Francis Elliot. ‘Beaumont, here is your replacement. Please show him the ropes.’ Erskine was a small, neat man of forty-two with a perpetually worried expression as if he was continually awaiting the receipt of some terrible news, which never arrived. After Sir Francis departed Beaumont began with a brief description of his duties, the reports which had to be completed, and the way in which Sir Francis wanted things to be done. When he had almost finished, Beaumont reached for his keys — there was one last task he had to fulfil.

                ‘Here you are, Erskine. I bequeath this to you.’ He extracted his card index, and was about to explain its workings when Erskine interrupted him.

                ‘Ah, yes. I have heard something of this famous secret box of yours. It cannot, if I may say so, be a great secret if it is known to so many? Let me make my position clear immediately, Beaumont. My duties will be as you have already outlined, and I shall perform them scrupulously. This aspect however,’ (he darted a furtive glance at the box as if it was in some way capable of doing him physical harm) ‘this aspect does not fall within our remit. Sir Edward was quite clear about such things when I saw him just before I left London. There has been some trouble of late with the Naval Attachés in Rome and Austria trying to suborn consuls for the gathering of information. The Admiralty sent out a recklessly indiscreet questionnaire for consuls to answer on the subject of armed merchant cruisers. Can you imagine? It only came to a head when Captain Boyle quite correctly reported it to the Minister in Rome. It only leads to trouble and, worse, it gives entirely the wrong impression: we are here to perform a disinterested service, not to report tittle tattle.’

                ‘I see,’ replied Beaumont, still taken aback at this outburst. ‘In that case you will have no use for this.’

                ‘I assure you, I will not.’ The Minister chose that moment to put his head around the door and inquire as to how Erskine was getting on: ‘Thank you, Minister. I believe I shall settle in without too much trouble.’

                ‘Good, just the job. There is something else I wish to discuss with you. Will you excuse us, Beaumont?’

                No sooner had Erskine departed in the Minister’s tow than Beaumont was jolted from the contemplation of his wasted labour by a knock at the door. He looked up at what, at first, appeared to be an apparition. ‘Major! What a pleasant surprise to see you here.’

                ‘If you forgive me for saying so, Henry, you look anything but pleasantly surprised.’

                ‘My replacement,’ said Beaumont dejectedly nodding in the direction of the door Samson had just entered.

                The Major turned around in time to see Sir Francis pausing at the head of the stairs to describe the finer points of one of the paintings to the new First Secretary.

                ‘Henry, I thought you were pleased at the prospect of leaving.’

                ‘Yes, a new beginning. It’s just the waste … my work …’ He patted the small wooden box in front of him. ‘Four years’ work, dismissed as “tittle tattle”.’

                Lionel Samson felt an acute twinge of sympathy for his distraught colleague: ‘As you say, Henry, a new beginning. Why not take it with you and start up a fresh index with what you find in Stamboul? There is bound to be trouble anew. It might come in handy. I’m sure Fitzmaurice will be pleased to help you clandestinely, particularly if he is to be pushed to one side. Or leave it here with Rendel — it might be of use to him and do him some good. George is too interested in enjoying himself.’

                ‘He can be serious when he wants to be.’ Beaumont stared aimlessly at the wall of dispatches, letters and documents. Piled high against the wall was the history of modern Greece as seen through British eyes. ‘Can we change things, Major, do you think; or are we just time-serving? I wouldn’t mind if the answer were to be “time-serving”, if only I knew. There are, after all, many minor diversions which make life tolerable. But to have found out too late that I could have made a difference; that would be unbearable.’

                ‘You have made a difference, just by virtue of your being here, Henry. I am, in any case, the wrong person to ask. I have professed openly never to have believed in fate, yet fate — and I deliberately refer to it thus — has lain in wait and ambushed me.’

                ‘Smyrna?’

                ‘That was the most egregious example; there have been others. I believe … you see, fate … what I mean is, if there is such a thing as fate … ’

                ‘You too are struck by the futility of it all?’

                ‘We had best not continue in this vein, Henry!’

                ‘Because it would do no good?’

                ‘Because it is too close to the truth. I used to think that a series of coincidences was just that; now I begin to wonder if there is not a purpose underneath it all? Not religion, not faith, but some way of making sense of events which appear at first to be senseless.’ Samson paused but Beaumont did not reply. They could hear voices on the stairs as Elliot and Erskine continued to exchange pleasantries. ‘A new beginning, Henry — think only of that. However, before we depart, there is one thing you could do to help me. It is connected with the work you have been doing here. In fairness, though, I must point out that there might be some element of danger. If caught, your career would undoubtedly suffer.’

                ‘What’s up, old man?’

                ‘Do you recall the small book in which I noted various observations during my investigation?’

                ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I can see you now in that chair taking down everything I said.’

                ‘Well, that book is presently in German hands and I need to retrieve it urgently.’

                ‘But how … ’

                ‘Never mind that now. Can you come with me to see Wace at the British School immediately?’ Beaumont leapt to his feet, anxious to be out of the office now that Erskine was about to reappear. As they walked to the Archaeological School Samson recounted the story of the missing notebook for Beaumont’s benefit, detailing in particular his use of his own personal cipher.

                ‘How long will it take them to break your code?’

                ‘Cipher, Henry; oh, never mind, you amateurs never will appreciate the difference. It would prove a reasonably simple task to anyone familiar with the various systems and the principles upon which they are based — so long as it could be read legibly and they are acquainted with the more obscure dialects to be found in Basutoland. But I suspect that they have not made much headway, or I would have heard something by now.’

                ‘And how do you propose to retrieve it?’

                ‘I am counting on the Prussian mentality when dealing with authority, Henry. It is a slender thread on which to hang my hopes, but all I have.’

                Once at the British Archaeological School they were shown into the Director’s large, airy office. Fragments of friezes and statues crowded the room and over it all floated the faint aroma of dust and decay. Samson spoke first; he knew Wace by reputation but only casually through an earlier Legation function. The archaeologist, already renowned, was, at thirty-four, younger than he had expected. ‘Do you know the personnel at the German School?’

                Wace did not find this request in any way out of the ordinary: ‘Certainly, Mr Samson. There are no boundaries in the pursuit of archaeological knowledge. We all help each other; it is, even now, only a small field.’

                ‘Would they have someone there whose training is in the preservation and restoration of paper documents?’

                ‘Why, yes: it’s strange you should ask that just now — Friedrich von Hössle has recently arrived. He is an authority on the history of paper-making. I doubt there is anyone who knows more about the subject. There is our own Edward Dawe; and of course the Frenchman, Onfroy. But von Hössle leads the field. He trained under Carl Hofmann in Berlin.’ Samson started involuntarily but quickly realized that it was a common name. Wace continued, warming to his subject: ‘Have you ever read Hofmann’s Praktisches Handbuch der Papier-Fabrikation? Fascinating work!’

                ‘Do you know this von Hössle personally?’ Samson inquired, cutting off Wace’s flow.

                ‘I have met him, though briefly. As I said, Mr Samson, there are no boundaries in our chosen field. I am constantly invited to the German School as, reciprocally, Karo and his colleagues are welcome here at any time. We are not diplomats; we are therefore not guided by the arcane and, if I may say so, sometimes petty rules which govern your vocation.’

                ‘I am a soldier, Mr Wace. I have a mission to perform; an urgent mission. And I need your help. Will you give it?’

                Wace glanced at Beaumont, who had remained silent throughout, until now: ‘It would be a great help to us, Wace.’

                ‘What is it you want me to do?’ asked Wace of Samson.

                ‘First, do you speak German?’

                ‘But of course.’

                ‘Good! Then, if you could describe von Hössle to me, there is only one other thing I would like you to do.’

                When Wace had finished with his extraordinarily detailed description, he inquired: ‘And the other thing?’

                ‘Oh, yes: I would like you to telephone the German School, pretend to be von Falkenhausen — you will have to lower your voice slightly; or perhaps shout, yes, that would be better — and order von Hössle “to bring the notebook round to the Legation immediately.” Refer to it only as “the notebook”, make it sound a peremptory order, and put the receiver down as soon as you have finished speaking, giving no time for a reply.’

                ‘And what if von Hössle recognizes my voice?’

                ‘Have you spoken to him in German before?’

                ‘No, he speaks excellent English.’

                ‘Then all will be well.’

That night, as arranged, Major Samson met Achilles in the park. This time the Major was waiting in ambush for his informant, causing him to jump when he called his name: ‘Don’t tell me,’ Samson began, almost before Achilles could recover his composure, ‘all hell has broken loose at the Legation. Quadt is in a panic. Colonel Metaxas has been summoned urgently. And von Falkenhausen has been issuing hasty denials all afternoon!’

                ‘How could you know this?’ At which point the Major produced, almost as if it were a holy relic, the tatty, blood-stained notebook. Achilles was momentarily lost for words. ‘You! It was you! It is not possible! The description was completely different. How could it be you?’

                Samson told the Greek how he and Beaumont had waited, further along Charilaos Tricoupis Street, just before the intersection with Academy Street. Then, at the appointed moment, von Hössle had come running out of the building in response to Wace’s telephone call. As he approached them, Samson had moved away from Beaumont, who then proceeded to approach von Hössle and, in his fluent Greek, ask for directions. While the German impatiently explained that he knew little Greek and even less of Athens, Samson had come up from behind, hit von Hössle a stunning blow at the base of the neck with his hands clenched together, grabbed the notebook, and run off into the nearby University grounds. Beaumont, after ascertaining that von Hössle was not seriously hurt, had then pretended to give chase. Beaumont soon caught up with the Major and, hardly pausing for breath, they ran into the Catholic Church on Homer Street where, at last, they collapsed, panting. When they had regained their composure, they had walked nonchalantly out of the Church and had soon covered the short distance to the British Legation. Pausing at the entrance to make sure Sir Francis was nowhere to be seen, they bolted into Beaumont’s office and locked themselves in.

                Once certain that they would not be disturbed, Samson opened his notebook. The attempt to remove the blood had almost succeeded although it had, in the process, all but bleached the paper, making the writing virtually impossible to read. There were some new pencil markings, underlining certain groupings of letters, and speculating that not all the letters of the alphabet would be present in the deciphered text, which ruled out the major European languages; there was also an attempt at preliminary word formation. Whoever had worked on the deciphering had progressed further than Samson had anticipated, but he remained convinced that the book had not yielded up its secrets. Presumably, once von Hössle had recovered from the blow and had reported the theft to the German Legation, it was to provide then a description of a Greek resembling Beaumont.

                ‘Let us hope,’ Samson declared to Achilles, ‘that in the day left to us, Quadt does not realize that this mysterious Greek was actually an Englishman; that it was not simply an opportunistic robbery.’

                ‘It will make things very difficult for me, Major. Everyone will be suspect. Anyway, I’ve been thinking about things all day. When I first came to you, I wanted to help the friends of Greece.’

                ‘Yes, I remember; but nothing has changed.’

                The episode of the notebook, although now resolved, had caused Achilles to think deeply, perhaps for the first time, about what he was doing; and this had only succeeded  in leaving him confused and dispirited. ‘Maybe it has. I thought Germans couldn’t be trusted; maybe that is still so. But it was with their weapons that we won at Kilkus. Because of that most of Macedonia is now Greek. Maybe there is a big scheme afoot; maybe in the end we become a German colony. All I know is those German guns beat off the Bulgarians. Where were the English? Where were the French?’

                It was one aspect of the German activity that had never occurred to Samson. ‘The Germans are trying to buy Greece’s loyalty: can’t you see that? Why would they be trying to do that now, if they did not have some big scheme planned? The destruction of Serbia perhaps?’

                ‘Then that is Serbia’s problem.’

                ‘Not if they don’t stop at the border. And what of your brother?’

                ‘His death is avenged. In the same soil that he is buried in are many of his fellow Greeks. He did not fight, sure, but he is still buried in sacred ground.’

                There was one avenue remaining for Samson: ‘All right, then. There is one thing left: the money. I won’t be here in Athens after all, so there will be little danger. All I ask is that, once a week, you write to me with whatever news you can find out. I will give you a safe address in Constantinople to send this to. For this I will pay one thousand francs per letter, but it must be good information; no gossip.’

                ‘You accuse me once of only wanting money, Major. Now it is all you have left to offer me. Maybe I don’t want money no more. Maybe I go back to Chicago. Athens is not the same to me now.’

                ‘I see. If that is your wish … There is no more to talk about then,’ announced the Major in a tone which combined resignation with finality. He began to walk away.

                ‘Wait! … ’ Achilles called after him: ‘Fifteen hundred for every letter.’

                ‘Twelve hundred is my last offer.’

                ‘All right, Major. But it would be wise to lay low just now. Too much is happening at the Legation. I will give you time to settle in Constantinople. What is this address?’ Samson scribbled the address of a safe house he had used previously to receive letters, the existence of which was unknown even to Fitzmaurice. The gas lamp in the street behind them hissed and spluttered while, deeper in the woods, concealed by the darkness, came the sound of a twig snapping. Achilles darted a glance, a wary frightened glance, in the direction from which the sound emanated. The gas flared as he turned back to face the Major, illuminating the fear which had overcome him. ‘It is not safe here anymore, Major.’

                ‘You must learn to control your imagination.’ With their business conducted, there was one question left to put to Achilles; a question which had been bothering the Major since his return from Avret Hissar: ‘By the way, have you seen any more of Professor Geroulanos?’

                ‘He has not been at the Legation since just before the Bulgarian War. I have heard he has taken up a teaching post in Leipzig. Why do you ask?’

                Samson thought of the missing report which in all probability implicated Achilles, as he was also working for Triantafyllakos. If Geroulanos’ motives were genuinely personal, the odds are he would keep quiet about the report, if he had not destroyed it already. In any event, there seemed no need, after this passage of time, to worry Achilles further. ‘Oh, nothing — nothing at all. I just wanted to offer my thanks.’

                Achilles nodded, clearly aware of the debt of gratitude owed by the Major following the operation which had taken place in the field hospital. They began to part once more when Achilles remembered one last thing: ‘There is one thing, Major — you were right about everything today except one thing: Metaxas. He wasn’t there today.’

                Samson was confused. He remained convinced that Metaxas was Metriticicas, and yet he could not find the one conclusive piece of evidence he required. In fact, it was almost the reverse: the more he quizzed Achilles about the identity of the Greek agent, the more that suspicion was slowly beginning to turn away from the Colonel. Unless, of course, Achilles himself was lying. However, if once he suspected this, it would render useless all the work of the previous months. He wished, nevertheless, now that his brother’s death was avenged, that Achilles’ loyalty rested on a firmer foundation than money.

                As for Geroulanos, he did not know what to think. All the evidence he had was circumstantial, but none the less convincing for that. If only the Professor had acted like a guilty man! All his actions after the apparent murder of Triantafyllakos could be explained logically and innocently; and, if Beaumont was correct, Skinas had died of natural causes. The saving of his life — for whatever reason — placed Samson in an extremely awkward position. Had the Professor redeemed himself by saving Samson’s life? Was it possible to redeem a murder? Until Geroulanos returned to Athens, there was nothing for it but to give him the benefit of the doubt.