Decision at Delphi (18 page)

“And that’s their fallacy. They are already trapped in their own cage.”

Christophorou looked at him sharply.

Strang said, “A nihilist believes in nothing. A man who believes in nothing cannot build anything. Therefore, a nihilist can reduce everything to chaos, but he can only keep living in chaos.”

“I think that you must do a little more reading on the subject of nihilism.”

“Perhaps,” Strang said equably, but he hadn’t expected that kind of remark from Christophorou. That was always one way of dealing with a point that wasn’t too easy to answer. It was the kind of reply you’d be given at a dinner party where a self-appointed expert was brushing aside some unexpected opposition. “How interesting, Mr. Strang, but I think if you were to read more on this...” He smiled and shook his head.

Christophorou said, “You find nihilism amusing?”

“No.” Strang was deadly serious now.

“Some people find conspiracy a comic subject,” Christophorou observed with a touch of acid.

“Yes, until they are destroyed by it.”

“So you don’t laugh at me when I talk about men such as Nikos Kladas?”

“No, I don’t laugh at you,” Strang said quickly. He thought for a moment. “I think you might be in less trouble, though, if you had told Steve Kladas about the conspiracy and his brother’s connection with it. Steve wouldn’t have laughed at you, either.”

“I didn’t get the chance to see him,” Christophorou reminded him again.

“Your colleague did.”

“His assignment was simply to find out if Nikos Kladas was alive. Besides, he had not the authority to disclose—”

“You didn’t even know that Nikos Kladas was alive?”

“All that was known was a name.”

“There’s a sister still living in Sparta. She could have told you—”

“Nothing,” cut in Christophorou. “I went to see Myrrha Kladas just over six weeks ago.”

“Nothing?” Strang asked unbelievingly.

“That’s what she said.”

“She is a Communist?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then why—”

“She was too unhappy—uncertain—I think, afraid. When people have held extreme opinions, they always seem a little nervous about trusting.”

“Or perhaps one should never send an Athenian to argue with a Spartan.”

Christophorou looked at him. “No one,” he said a little stiffly, “would have had much success with Myrrha Kladas. In fact, I regard it as a triumph that she did give us one small piece of help. At the end of our talk, or rather my talk, for she kept
mostly silent, she suddenly said, ‘My brother Stefanos in New York is coming to Greece. Speak with him.’ And the interview was over.”

“A nice sisterly touch, that, shifting the responsibility on to Steve.”

“I was grateful for it. Without it, we could never have arranged that meeting in Taormina, never have learned that Nikos Kladas is known to be alive.”

“Could the villagers in Thalos not tell you anything about Nikos?”

“Very little. They distrusted the Kladas family who came back from America. He was only remembered as a boy of sixteen or seventeen who went off with his older brother to fight the Italians. Nothing had ever been heard of him since. They all thought he was dead, like so many others.”

“Well,” said Strang slowly, “your one hope seems to be Steve. Only, this time, tell him everything.”

“I’ve told
you,
Kenneth. I’ve told you much too much.”

“I’ve been wondering about that,” Strang said. But he had been worrying about that, too.

“In desperate situations, one has to use one’s own judgment; one has to talk, even to the point of being indiscreet.”

“I understand. The word got through. What do you want from me, Aleco?”

“Anything you can tell me about Stefanos Kladas and his visit to Greece—his friends, his problems. Anything.”

“But he said practically nothing—”

“What is ‘practically nothing’ to you might mean a great deal to us. You see—all trace of Stefanos Kladas has been lost. He has disappeared. Completely, this time.”

That had been a swift jolt, in spite of Christophorou’s quiet bedside manner. Strang’s mind and face went blank for a moment. Then, remembering Steve’s past performance, he said wryly, “He is getting to be pretty good at that, isn’t he?”

“But this time he may not have arranged his disappearance.”

“What?”

“The Sicilian police are working on his disappearance now. The Italian police have been alerted. So have our police. So has your embassy.”

“Good God!”

“Stefanos Kladas took the morning train to Messina on Saturday. And that is all that is known.”

“He was travelling by train?” Strang couldn’t believe it. That train, after a halt at Messina, crossed on the ferry to Italy. It was a slow way to reach Greece.

“Yes. Taormina station was the last place he was seen.”

“He never reached Calabria? What’s the name of that place over on the mainland—Reggio?”

“The Italian police searched. They report no sign of him.”

“When did they start looking?”

“Sunday morning. We wasted no time. When I left you on Saturday night, I got the local police to make inquiries at the Catania airport. That drew a blank. So then they checked at the Taormina station. By Sunday morning, the search had spread across to Calabria.”

“Then Steve must have got off the train at Messina before it went on to the ferry for Italy.”

“Why should he get off at Messina?”

“He might have taken passage on a freighter to Greece.” But even as he spoke, Strang felt his doubts increase.

“All sailings from Messina on Saturday have been checked. No freighter picked up any passenger.”

Strang rose to his feet. With his doubts came fears. He was remembering a yacht, possibly the
Medea,
possibly sailing from Messina, possibly bound for Greece. How did that sound? Too many possibles_ And yet, he was remembering, too, the strange household on the street that led up to the Greek theatre in Taormina. They were more than strange, since Mr. Private Private had shown a capacity for searching other people’s luggage. Where had they gone when they had left at four o’clock on a Saturday afternoon? To Messina, where the
Medea
was waiting for them? “How far is it, by car, from Taormina to Messina?” Strang asked suddenly. “Thirty miles?”

Christophorou was startled; then interested. “About thirty miles,” he agreed. “Why do you ask?”

It could have been the
Medea,
Strang thought. Now, that was more than a possibility. “What would these people do with Steve? Kidnap, question him? Would they even kill him?”

Christophorou’s grave dark eyes only looked at him sombrely. “I overworry. So you told me in Taormina.”

“I was a damn fool in Taormina,” Strang said angrily. The interested spectator, the man who talked down worry, the reasonable-explanation guy. “We went to two very different schools, you and I,” he told Christophorou, “and I don’t mean the kind where you learned to speak English from old Tommy, either.” He went over to his case for his emergency flask of brandy. “How much time have you got?”

“Time? It’s running out fast.”

“No, no, I mean how much time have you got right now? Can you spare me another half hour?” He handed Christophorou a water glass with a couple of inches of brandy. “Not just for a drink,” Strang said, noticing Christophorou’s slight impatience, “or for some general chitchat. I am going to tell you a very odd story. It’s more like a theme running through a piece of music, all dependent on two people. One is Steve Kladas; the other, a woman I have never even seen, Euphrosyne Duval, whose husband, Etienne Duval, left her an outsize fortune. And there’s a sort of counterpoint to this theme which I heard from Caroline Ottway in Taormina. It deals with Steve and his brother during the occupation, when they fought in the mountains. Nikos Kladas called himself Sideros then.”

“Sideros!”

“You recognise that name, I see.”

“Many people have good reason to remember Sideros.” Christophorou was still staring at Strang. “But Sideros is dead. He is officially listed as dead.”

“If Nikos Kladas is alive, as you told me, then Sideros is alive.”

“Are you sure they can be identified as the same man?”

“Steve has only one brother.”

“Well—” said Christophorou, and drew a deep breath. “There is a very full record on Sideros,” he added softly.

“Then tell your colleagues to start digging into the files and it might be surprising how easy the search for a man called Sideros should be. They’ll find his descriptions, habits, friends—right?”

“Most possible.”

“And then the conspiracy might start unravelling enough. Isn’t that why you are all trying to find Nikos Kladas? He is the loose thread.”

“He is the only loose thread.” Then Christophorou shook
his head in wonder. “But how did you ever learn the name of Sideros?” He set down his brandy glass untouched, and put out his cigarette.

“I’ll begin with the first thing I learned—the visit of a very frightened young woman, called Katherini Roilos, to
Perspective’s
office.” And Strang began his story, omitting nothing—not even the documents in Steve’s small case—giving only the facts, wasting no time on his own inferences or deductions.

When he ended, there was a long silence. Strang was still trying to remember if he had forgotten anything. “No,” he said at last, drawing the final line. “That just about covers everything.”

Christophorou was watching him with a completely new expression on his usually guarded face. He was interested, astounded, but also amused. “Just about everything,” he agreed, a hint of a smile lingering around his lips.

“Except, of course, where Steve’s documents are now hidden,” Strang said quite frankly.

“I hope you have hidden them well.”

Strang couldn’t restrain his own smile. “Sorry, Aleco. They don’t belong to me. I hand them over to Steve. They are still his property. Right?”

Christophorou looked aghast. “Good heavens, do you think I want them?”

“Yes.” Strang’s smile broadened into a grin.

Christophorou was deadly serious. “I wouldn’t
touch
them,” he said emphatically. “Can you imagine how the authenticity of these documents could be torn to shreds, by any defence counsel in a court of law, if you were to give them to me without witnesses? Fabrications, invented evidence, collusion between two friends. My dear Kenneth, the only thing for you to do,
meanwhile, is to keep these documents. Either Stefanos Kladas will collect them or—you can hand them over to me in the presence of one of your own State Department officials. There is an aide at your embassy, Pringle is his name, who is watching developments closely. After all, Nikos Kladas is technically an American.”

“How long can we afford to wait for Steve?”

“This is Monday—” Christophorou frowned. “Let’s say until Friday. No later than that.”

“Can we hold off as long as that?” Strang was doubtful.

“If you feel you can’t, just let me know,” Christophorou suggested. “I was only trying to follow your own inclinations, Kenneth.” He waited. And then, as Strang kept silent, he said crisply, “Let us review your story. This girl, Katherini Roilos—I think she could tell us a great deal. She must be desperate if she could think of no other way to let you know she would be in Athens than that pitiful little attempt to reach you through a passenger list.”

“It seemed to me,” Strang said, “that her aunt’s name on that list was the important one, all the more so when the Duval woman wanted her visit to Athens to be kept so secret. Why?”

Christophorou shrugged his shoulders.

“Is Madame Duval a political exile? I mean—shouldn’t she be in Athens?”

“I know of no reason why she shouldn’t be. She’s just one of those obnoxious rich women, too much money, too little sense. She lives in the kind of way that would almost turn me Communist. Senseless display.” Christophorou spoke with marked aversion. “Completely self-centred. Irresponsible.”

“The yacht
Medea
worries me, frankly. Its timing was—”

“I’ll pass on your information about that.”

“And the little light-footed lock-fixer—”

“I’ll see to him, too. In fact,” Christophorou frowned, “I’ll pass on all your information. You can forget about it, Kenneth.”

“Good,” Strang said, glad to be rid of it all.

“You think Ottway would really tell what he knows?”

“Why not? He’s pro-Greek.”

“Yes. But—his private life is his own.”

Strang shot a quick glance at him.

“I am talking about the past, Kenneth, and a very personal past it was—nothing to do with politics.” Christophorou paused. “Frankly, I was surprised to hear he had married.”

Strang said nothing.

“His wife seems charming.”

“Yes.”

It was Christophorou’s turn to glance sharply at Strang. “Why did she talk so much to you? Could it be possible that she was feeding you all that information?”

“No. She was only trying to find out more. That’s all.”

“Oh?”

“About the past,” Strang said abruptly. He didn’t like this turn in the conversation.

“She is jealous of it? With reason, I might say.” Christophorou thought for a moment. “And Ottway is jealous of you. They must be in love, after all.”

“Jealous? No, Aleco. Wrong tree.”

“Why did he risk coming out of his hotel room to keep that appointment with you? You told me he had been lying low for a week. If Ottway did that, he had a good reason. He is no fool. Yet you pulled him out—”

“You flatter me. He isn’t the kind who gets jealous.”

“Then he was worried about his friend Stefanos Kladas?”

“Like all of us,” Strang said, trying to ignore the implication in Christophorou’s voice.

“Like all of us,” Christophorou agreed, and rose. He looked at Strang as he shook hands. Again that odd expression— interest, astonishment, amusement—came over his face. This time, amusement won. “And I thought, in Taormina, that I was keeping you out of all this trouble.” He regained his seriousness with an effort. “Now,
there
is a truly comic situation. Isn’t it?”

It was ironic, Strang thought, that Americans who could take perfectly good care of themselves at home seemed to have earned a general reputation of needing protection abroad. But it was fine to see Aleco Christophorou with a real smile again.