Decision at Delphi (13 page)

“I’m glad to hear that Athens is safer.” Strang’s disappointment added a slight edge to his voice.

Christophorou said quickly, “For you, certainly. Because in Athens, I meet so many people. But here, I have met no one except on—certain business.”

The implication was clear enough. “Your business has to do with Steve Kladas?”

“Yes. I would rather you were not connected with it, in any way. And so, let us postpone our little dinner.”

“It seems to me I’m pretty well connected with Steve already.”

“But only in your own work. Let us keep it that way, Kenneth.”

Strang said nothing. Was a postponed dinner the only reason for this meeting? Perhaps Christophorou had thought that the voice explained more kindly than a brief note.

“No other questions?” Christophorou asked.

“Plenty,” Strang said. “But they would put me at a disadvantage.”

“I know. Questions make a man sound inquisitive or naive. You were never either of these things.”

“They can also embarrass one’s friends,” Strang reminded him, letting the compliment fall to the ground. Whether it was truth or flattery no longer interested him: he had become older, too, evidently. “Frankly, what questions may I ask you?”

“Have I become so much a mystery?”

“You always were, you know,” Strang said with a laugh.

“I was?” Christophorou was serious, a little hurt. He hadn’t taken the remark as a small joke. “How?”

“Just the way we met, remember?”

“In the Grande Bretagne bar. But what was mysterious about that? It was crowded with soldiers, a general headquarters for the government forces—”

“But you were the only man there who didn’t laugh when I said over a drink that before I left Athens all I wanted to see was the Parthenon. I remember you standing quite quietly at one side of the bar. You looked over at me and said, ‘Why not?’ And you did get me close up to the Acropolis, street-fighting or no street-fighting.”

“A mad impulse,” Christophorou remarked, “but hardly mysterious.”

“I used the wrong word, “I guess. I ought to have said ‘romantic’ or something like that.” Strang was embarrassed a little. “And how is Athens?”

“Quiet.”

“Are you still teaching law at the University?”

“No. But I haven’t given up the practice of law, entirely.” Christophorou was speaking carefully. Strang had the feeling that he was choosing his words. “Shall we say that I have moved into a field where my training can be very useful?”

Intelligence work, obviously, thought Strang: something confidential at least.

“I’m a journalist.”

Strang wondered if he had guessed wrong. He said, “I thought that perhaps you were here on some kind of police business, or intelligence work, or something like that.”

“Not police business,” Christophorou said definitely. “I am here as a journalist interested in a story.”

“I’m sure you are a very good journalist and the story is a very good story, too.” If Christophorou had become an intelligence agent, he could scarcely admit it, but the inflexion in his voice and his new passion for secrecy might be a calculated warning to a friend: I am here on official business, he seemed to be saying, but I can’t tell you that in actual words.

“The story belongs to Stefanos Kladas,” Christophorou said. “My job is to ask him to tell it. I think it will be a very important story.”

“For Kladas, or for you?” Strang asked bluntly.

“For many, many people,” the quiet voice said. Then Christophorou laughed that small touch of grimness away. He reached out and grasped Strang’s shoulder for a moment. “Don’t worry, Kenneth. You will not have to divide your loyalties between Stefanos Kladas and me.”

I hope to God I won’t, Strang thought. Steve’s story, he was beginning to feel, was much more than the family matter Steve had talked about. “What do you intend to do with this story when you get it?”

“That will be decided on the highest level. This is a very grave security matter. I can’t explain more.”

Strang thought of Steve’s small case lying so peacefully in his room. He moved restlessly. “Well,” he said, “when you get to Athens, call me at the Grande Bretagne and we can arrange—”

Christophorou stopped him as he rose. “There are some things I can explain, though. It is absolutely imperative that we find Stefanos Kladas.”

“Why?”

“Because he has certain knowledge, certain information about certain people, which is vital to us. His story, as I call it, could be disastrous if it were to get into the wrong hands. I
must
see Stefanos Kladas. You understand?”

Strang nodded politely. The matter was urgent; that he did understand. He said, “So my letter to you turned out to be very useful.”

“Incidentally, yes. When your letter reached me in Athens, we already had a man in Taormina waiting to interview Stefanos Kladas when he arrived from Naples.”

So that explained Steve’s hurry to get to Taormina. “Didn’t he see your man?”

“Yes. But the meeting was not altogether satisfactory. Stefanos Kladas wanted to deal with his story in his own way, on his own terms. Perhaps he wanted time to think about our proposals. He arranged for another meeting here in Taormina, this week. And that is where your letter was not only a pleasant surprise, but something useful. For I decided to come and interview him myself. If he still had doubts about us, then I thought you could at least vouch for me. Or was I wrong?”

“Steve makes up his own mind.”

“But aren’t you close friends?”

“Yes, but still I don’t know any of his secrets. That’s the way he is.” Strang tried to see Christophorou’s expression, but the shadows defeated him. Would Christophorou have ever bothered to meet me at all, he wondered wryly, if I couldn’t have introduced him to Steve? “I thought you said you wanted me kept out of all this business.”

“I do, since coming to Taormina. Back in Athens, the interview seemed a much simpler matter. But here, in Sicily, our competitors have learned that Stefanos Kladas is around.”

Strang half smiled. “Are they working for a rival newspaper?”

“You could express it that way.” Christophorou’s voice was grim.

“And you are both after the same information?”

“Yes. But their methods—” Christophorou’s shrug could be felt through the darkness.

“How will they try to get it?”

“By threats, or bribery, or even blackmail.”

“Steve isn’t the kind to be easily threatened.” Or bribed, or blackmailed.

“Perhaps not. But—in any case—our problem has widened. It is not only a matter of persuading Stefanos Kladas to give us that information. It is a matter of protecting him.”

“He won’t like that.”

“He won’t know.”

“He will. Any intelligent man would know at once if he were being followed around.”

There was a slight pause. “Did you know that you have been followed for almost two days?”

“What?” There was a longer pause. “Why?”

“You might have been interesting.”

“And was I?”

“Until last night.”

“And what did I do last night to make them lose interest?” Strang’s sense of the ludicrous became swamped in anger. “And who the hell are—”

Christophorou’s hand was on his arm. “Quietly,” he advised. “Last night, you searched this town. Obviously, you were looking for Stefanos Kladas. Obviously, you did not even know his hotel.”

“And obviously, if he didn’t trust me with his address, he never trusted me very much about anything.” Strang was still angry.

“Or did he?”

Strang hesitated for a moment. “He told me about his sister. She’s alone now, in some small village in Sparta. There was some problem about a dowry. But that isn’t the story you want from Steve, is it? I don’t know any other.”

Christophorou was silent for a few moments. “You haven’t seen him since you came here?”

“No.”

“No letter? No message?”

“There was. a telephone call, last night.”

“You spoke with him?”

Strang, sensing the change in Christophorou’s face, cursed the deep shadows once more. It was only when you talked in the dark that you realised how much you listened, not only with your ears, but with your eyes.

“No. The message came just ten minutes before I got back to the hotel. He was delayed in Syracuse.” Strang shook his head and added, “But after what you’ve told me, I wouldn’t be surprised if Steve didn’t send that message. Perhaps the men
who followed me around last night thought they’d send me a note and get me to stop searching.”

“Stefanos Kladas did not send that message.”

Strang, who hadn’t really believed his own suggestion, looked startled.

Christophorou rose to his feet. “I went to Syracuse. I found where Stefanos Kladas had been staying. But he had already left Syracuse, yesterday morning.”

“Then where is he?” Strang was on his feet, too. If Steve had left Syracuse yesterday morning, he could have reached Taormina by noon. Unless, of course, he had stopped off to photograph Etna, or Catania.

“Don’t start worrying! Stefanos Kladas is bound to return to Taormina. He left some of his luggage at his hotel. Two cameras and a suitcase.”

“He wouldn’t leave Sicily without collecting all his cameras,” Strang agreed. “I think I’ll get in touch with the local police, though.”

“That’s unnecessary. I’ve already been in touch with them.”

Strang stared through the darkness.

Christophorou said, “That isn’t as bad as I made it sound. Just a precaution. That is all. Really, Kenneth, I did not mean to worry you like this. You seemed to be taking everything so calmly”— Christophorou himself sounded worried. But not so much by Kladas, for he asked, “When do you plan to leave here?”

“I was supposed to leave for Rome by the early plane from Catania on Monday.” Supposed to...but what now?

“Then straight on to Athens? Keep that plan.”

“But if Steve—”

“Keep it!” Christophorou’s hand gripped Strang’s. “I want
to see you in Athens. So keep it. Tomorrow—what were you going to do tomorrow?”

“Spend the morning at the Greek theatre, the afternoon working in my room.”

“Keep that plan, too. Good-bye, Kenneth.”

“Good-bye—” Strang paused in embarrassment. He couldn’t say “Christophorou.” That might sound like a rebuff. Alexander? Aleco? Too familiar. “But I don’t think I’ll concentrate much on my work,” he said quickly. “Where is Steve’s hotel?”

“I would rather you did not visit it. That would only complicate my life still more. I don’t want you in the picture at all, Kenneth. It is quite enough to have to worry about Stefanos Kladas.”

“Are you sure you are not overworrying?” Strang asked slowly.

“Quite sure.” Christophorou sounded most definite. “Goodbye, Kenneth.”

“Good-bye,” Strang said again.

Christophorou smiled as he moved out into the half-shadows. “Aleco would be quite suitable,” he said gently. “After all, one doesn’t measure friendship by length of time only; depth of time is just as valuable. And danger gives the greatest depths of all.”

Now they could see each other’s faces again.

“You aren’t quite sure of me, Kenneth, are you?” The smile on Christophorou’s face faded. “Yet I haven’t changed. I am still fighting, in my own way.”

“I had hoped the fight was over.” Then Strang added, “But I suppose the barbarians never leave us.”

“Barbarians?” Christophorou looked puzzled. At last, he remembered. “Ah, yes,” he said. “How can they leave? They
are part of us all, perhaps.” He turned, stepped into the pool of lamplight, and made his way to the steps. The trees hid him.

Strang walked by another path toward the balustrade. Now he could light a cigarette. He smoked it slowly, without any pleasure. “You aren’t quite sure of me, Kenneth, are you?” Aleco had asked, mistaking Strang’s worry and indecision for distrust. Come to think of it, Aleco had not been quite sure of Strang, either. That was a most unsatisfactory meeting in every way, Strang thought: I don’t know much more than I did, except that there is a feeling of disaster all around Steve. Disaster—he could feel it as deep and black as the night around him. Suddenly, he was chilled. The late breeze had a sharp edge. So had this feeling of inadequacy; this sense of having disappointed, this admission of having been disappointed. The truth was that he couldn’t tell Aleco about Steve’s case and its documents; they were Steve’s business, not his. And Aleco couldn’t have told Strang more about his problems; he felt, probably, that he had reached the farthest point of indiscretion, stretching it as far as he could because of—what? Friendship? Or necessity?

I’d like to think it was both, Steve decided. He looked down for a moment longer at the vast stretch of sea so far below him. Three torches moved slowly across the dark water, just off shore. They were night fishing, down there. Now that’s what I’d like to be doing, he thought; right now, I’d like to be in one of those small boats, drifting along, nothing to think about except the curious fish swimming nearer and nearer the flickering torches, nothing to worry about except making the oars dip silently, keeping our voices low, nothing to watch except the scattered lights on the
hillsides under this huge canopy of star-sprinkled sky.

He dropped his cigarette, ground it out with his heel, and started the long walk back to his room. If Steve didn’t turn up by tomorrow morning, he was going to the police.

Among the antiques in the shadowed corridor, the
facchino
was dozing in a high-backed chair. But the sound of Strang’s light footstep, deadened as it was by the heavy rug, was enough to rouse him. He called over, “There is a message in your room, signore. It came ten minutes ago.” He acknowledged Strang’s thanks with a polite,
“Buona notte!”
and lapsed into his private brooding again. The hotel, thought Strang, had become message-conscious after last night’s constant inquiries. Also, his room was guarded well. Nothing, he verified as he glanced around it, had been disturbed. As always, his luggage and Steve’s small case lay neatly together. He looked at Steve’s case for an extra moment, and turned to pick up the large envelope propped against his travelling clock on the dressing table. Another fake, he thought bitterly, and then saw that the address was in Steve’s handwriting.