Hearts of Stone (20 page)

‘Michaelis had set an ambush a short distance from Vafkeri. The British officer had set mines along the edge of the road where the Italians would race for cover once the first shots had been fired. But one of our fighters, not much more than a boy really, panicked and opened fire too soon, before the enemy even reached the mines. There was a short exchange of fire. A few of the enemy were shot down and one of our own men. The officer set the mines off to cover our retreat and the
andartes
hurried back to their cave. I was there and saw what happened next. The British officer was furious, he shouted insults and hit the boy, again and again, before Michaelis pulled him away. When the officer went to hit the boy again Michaelis drew his gun and shot him in the leg. He told the officer that if he opened his mouth again then he’d shoot him in the head.’

Anna swallowed. ‘And did he shoot him? Did he kill him?’

‘No. The man had finally come to his senses and kept his mouth shut. Katarides and I did the best we could to treat his wound and a message was sent to Cairo saying that he had been wounded and needed to be picked up. We got rid of him a few nights later.’

‘Did he live?’

‘I don’t know. I never heard of him again. At least it showed the British that we would not just roll over and do what they told us to. After he was evacuated they obviously decided they needed to find someone else to help us. Someone who understood the people of Lefkas . . .’

Chapter Eighteen

Cairo, April 1942

T
he noises of the street carried through the high windows of the anteroom where Andreas sat alone on one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs lining the wall. Above, an electric fan spun round on a low setting, barely stirring the air enough to offer him any comfort in the late morning heat which lay over the city like a stifling blanket. The walls were whitewashed and slightly stained where cupboards had once lined the room. The floor was wooden and smelled pleasantly of polish, a welcome hygienic odour after the pungent sour smell of the streets he had walked through to reach the former offices of the Oriental Wares Trading Company. The sign still hung outside the modest entrance, but the company had long since moved to Port Said. An Egyptian doorman stood outside in his galabeya, just as if the company was still in residence, but as soon as Andreas had entered the building it was clear that a very different kind of enterprise was being run from the premises.

A thickset man in khaki shorts and shirt was seated behind a desk in the entrance hall. He checked Andreas’s name against a list and guided him up the stairs to the anteroom. On one side of the building was a busy street, thronged by traders, hawkers and off-duty servicemen seeking the sultry delights offered by the souks and the less salubrious bars and clubs the great city had to offer. The other side fronted on to the Nile, offering fine views of the steamers and feluccas that carried goods up and down the river.

Andreas wore a simple cotton suit over an open shirt. His naval uniform was back in his room at the Continental Hotel where it had hung for over two weeks since his arrival in Cairo. He had been summoned to the city on the orders of the Greek government in exile and simply been told to wait for instructions to be delivered to the hotel. He had spent the first few days enjoying the comforts of The Continental. The bar was popular and there were always plenty of British officers with whom to practise his basic grasp of the language. One in particular had taken Andreas under his wing and introduced him to the best restaurants and clubs of Cairo. Although Patrick Leigh Fermor, or Paddy as he had insisted on being called, had only just arrived in the city, his easy charm and good looks had already won him an opening in Cairo’s glittering social world. There was also a pool and Turkish bath to delight those staying at the hotel after spending months campaigning in the baking desert.

For Andreas, it was a welcome relief from the fervid atmosphere of Alexandria where the
Papanikolis
had been berthed ever since escaping from Sivota Bay. Her propeller had long since been repaired, but the only voyages she had undertaken since then had been to deliver agents and weapons to the resistance fighters in Crete. Andreas had missed the first mission while recovering from his broken collar bone and the infection that had set in during the submarine’s transit to the safety of Alexandria. Since then he had begun to resign himself to the boredom of living ashore in the cramped quarters assigned to the remnants of the Royal Hellenic Navy. Until he had been summoned to Cairo.

After the first week he had grown tired of waiting at the hotel and the only telephone call he had made to the offices of the exiled government had resulted in a curt explanation that he was to remain where he was and wait. So Andreas had decided to explore the city and the day before he had wandered into the Club de Chasse and approached the bar. He ordered a beer and took a seat close to the small fountain in the courtyard. There was an old copy of
The Times
and he picked it up to practise reading English. He had not been sitting long when he heard a discreet cough and looked up to see a dapper man in tennis flannels smiling at him.

‘I say, do you mind if I sit here?’

Andreas glanced round at the other empty seats and tables meaningfully. The other man flicked a tendril of brown hair back as he waited for a reply.

‘Of course, please do.’

‘Thank you, old boy. Most kind.’ The man slipped into a chair opposite and Andreas became aware that he was being scrutinised in a generally amiable manner. Still, he did not care for it and looked up from the newspaper with an arched eyebrow.

‘Can I help you?’

‘Your accent is Greek, if I’m not mistaken.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you might be the chap I’m looking for. Lieutenant Katarides?’

Andreas nodded. ‘That’s right.’

The man leaned forward and held out his hand to shake. ‘Then I’m terribly glad to make your aquaintance. I’m John Huntley. Johnny to my friends. Look here, do you mind if we talk in Greek? It’s just that there’s rather too many foreign fellows in Cairo these days. Yourself excepted!’ He laughed briefly, then continued in fluent, if not quite mellifluous, Greek. ‘I’m actually the reason you have been asked to come to Cairo.’

Andreas looked at him closely. A more English-looking individual it was hard to conceive. In addition to his attire he had the fair complexion and neatly cut hair so typical of the young officers seen everywhere in the city. There was also the air of earnest enthusiasm that Andreas had noticed in so many of the type. It was hard to decide on his age. The man might have been anything between twenty-five and forty. If it was a masquerade then it was certainly a fine performance. All the same, he decided to exercise caution.

‘I’m not sure I understand you.’

‘Oh, of course. Very sensible of you. Look here, Katarides, I would not dream of putting you on the spot like this, so I’ll give you my card and you can clear things with your chaps in the Greek government in exile. They’ll vouch for me. The reason you’re here is that I have an interesting proposition for you. Something I think you’ll quite like actually. If you decide you are interested then do call on me at the address on the card. Shall we say eleven tomorrow?’ he asked and then shook Andreas’s hand once again and rose to leave without waiting for confirmation. ‘I’ll see you on the morrow then!’

He turned to stroll back across the courtyard. Andreas looked down at the small business card that had been so neatly pressed into his palm. He read the name and the address, then finished his beer and went to find the nearest telephone.

That had been less than a day ago, and now Andreas heard footsteps approaching the anteroom and sat up expectantly as a thin man in glasses and wearing army shirt and shorts appeared from the end of the corridor and nodded a greeting.

‘Colonel Huntley will see you now, sir.’

‘Colonel Huntley?’ This was the first that Andreas had heard of his rank, even after the telephone call to his superior in the optimistically titled Admiralty Office of the government in exile. He had just confirmed that the British had approached the Greek officials to ask if there were any officers who were familiar with the Ionian islands and who could be spared for special duties. In view of the fact that Andreas had been born and raised on Lefkas his name had been put forward.

‘Yes, sir. Please follow me.’

They went down the corridor and passed a few open doors that led into empty offices. Some were sparsely furnished, with paperwork out on the desks, but there was little sign of any other life. They came to a closed door on the side of the building overlooking the Nile and Andreas’s escort stopped and rapped the door frame.

‘Come!’

He twisted the door handle and stood aside to usher Andreas in. It was a large office nearly ten metres long and half as wide, with large windows taking full advantage of the view. The shutters had been swung back and light flooded in, washing the interior in a warm glow. There were three desks, two piled with papers and one bare desk behind which sat the man Andreas had met the day before. He stood up and offered the same smile as he held out his hand.

‘Ah, Lieutenant Katarides, good of you to come,’ he said as if welcoming an unexpected guest. ‘Can I offer you some tea or coffee?’

‘Coffee please, sir.’

Huntley looked up towards the man standing outside in the corridor. ‘Watkins, two coffees, if you would be so kind.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The orderly saluted and turned to stride back down the corridor. The Englishman sat down and winced, then opened a drawer and took out a small bottle of tablets and unscrewed the cap before tapping two into a glass of water. At once the tablets fizzed into life and turned the water opaque. Huntley downed it quickly and began speaking in Greek.

‘Perils of spending too much time drinking with the chaps from the brigade. Anyway, I thought we’d have a little chat. Find out a bit about each other before discussing any weightier matters.’

‘I was told that I was being considered for some kind of special duties, sir.’

‘Ah, yes, quite. We’ll come to that in good time. First I need to find out a bit more about what kind of a man you are. I already know a little through official channels.’ He paused and tapped a thin file lying in front of him. It bore the crest of the Royal Hellenic Navy. ‘You have a good record, and your former commanding officer speaks highly of you. I was particularly taken by the account of your rearguard action in the hills above Sivota. Reads like a
Boys’ Own
adventure novel. Terribly exciting!’

Andreas recalled the fear that had gripped him that day, as well as the loss of his comrades. But there had also been a fleeting moment of euphoria at the height of the action. He regarded the Englishman steadily.

‘I did what was necessary, sir.’

‘No doubt, but you displayed a certain dash, which is the kind of quality I am interested in. Aside from that you are commended for you navigating skills and professionalism. It’s clear that you could go far in the service of your country. But not necessarily just through the navy. There are many ways in which a good man can further the cause against the Hun and his Italian tail-coaters.’

The orderly returned and set the steaming cups down on the desk before leaving and closing the door behind him.

Huntley slid the file to one side and rested his elbows on the table as he stared at Andreas. ‘So much for the official account. Aside from that, I know that you can hold your drink, that you have a decent grasp of English, that you get on well with people and that you can be discreet about your beliefs and the things that you observe. Like that incident at the Kit Cat Club with Brigadier Sims and his lady friend.’

Andreas shifted uncomfortably as he recalled the night he and Paddy had spent at the garish club aboard a boat moored on the Nile. They had stumbled across the senior officer in question loudly fornicating up against a wall. After a brief exchange of pleasantries they had passed on and the noisy liaison had resumed. Paddy had explained that Sims had a senior staff post and that if any word of his loose morals and indiscreet behaviour in a city teeming with enemy agents slipped out then the man’s career was finished. So Andreas had not repeated what he had witnessed. And at once his eyes widened in realisation.

‘You’ve had someone watching me since the moment I reached Cairo . . .’

‘Well, from the moment you checked into The Continental at least.’

‘Lieutenant Leigh Fermor?’

‘That’s right. Only known him briefly but Paddy’s a good man. I asked him to take you on and see what kind of a fellow you are. As it happens he also speaks very highly of you, so I wouldn’t feel too chippy about him. Leigh Fermor is a fine judge of character and you wouldn’t be here now if he had not vouched for your qualities.’ Huntley stroked his jaw. ‘I imagine I will be making good use of that young man in due course. But that’s work for another day. You are what interests me right now, Lieutenant Katarides. I know about your father, I’ve even read some of his poems, in Greek. He strikes me as something of a radical, politically speaking. Would you say that’s the case?’

‘My father’s politics are his own affair.’

‘Yes, that’s true to an extent, but one can’t help imbibing a certain view of the world from one’s parents, wouldn’t you agree? Take me, for instance. My father was a soldier before me and my mother is the daughter of an earl. Consequently, conservative ideology flows through my veins, I would die for king and country, in that order, and if a socialist turned up on my doorstep I’d set the dogs on him. Now you, on the other hand, are the son of a radical. Worse than that, a poet. Don’t get me wrong, I love good poetry, I just question the romantic ideals of those who would rather take up a pen than a sword. Nothing quite as romantic as fighting for a good cause, I’d say. What?’ He laughed and then, when Andreas did not join in, his expression became serious.

‘So tell me, young Katarides, are you a republican, like your father?’

‘I believe that monarchy has become an anachronism, yes.’

‘And are you a socialist?’

‘I believe in the rights of the people. But I have never considered myself to be a socialist. The only cause on my mind is the need to fight to free my homeland from the oppression it is suffering under the Nazis. I have heard rumours that thousands of Greeks have died of hunger over the winter because the fascists have stolen all our food for their soldiers.’

‘They are not rumours, I’m afraid, but fact. And the deaths have not been in the thousands, but the hundreds of thousands as far as we can make out. I’m sorry to have to tell you that.’

Andreas felt a cold sense of despair weigh down his heart. ‘So many?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I must do something. Anything to strike at those murderers.’

‘Of course you must. The question is, what is the most use you can be to your people and the wider cause? That is where I come in. Or, to be more accurate, the organisation I represent. I don’t suppose you have heard of Force 133?’

Andreas shook his head.

‘Good. That’s as it should be. We don’t like others to be aware of our people, let alone advertise the existence of the organisation. First I have a question for you. Do you have any moral qualms about committing murder?’

Andreas could not help looking surprised at the question and puffed his cheeks before he responded. ‘That depends on who I am required to murder.’