Kingdoms Fall - The Laxenburg Message (20 page)

“You are very kind to say so; it is a pity
there is so little worth seeing in Salonika. Perhaps you could tell me
something of your time in Egypt. I have been told that the pyramids of Giza are
among the greatest of mankind’s achievements.”

“I would be delighted to do so. And perhaps one
day I could arrange a sedan to take us out for a ride in the country. Would you
like that? It’s rather crowded here in the city.”

“And soon it will be more crowded still. There
are rumors that many British and French soldiers are coming to reinforce the
Serbians. I suspect you will be staying in Salonika more than a few days
yourself, Captain.” She looked at Gresham with upraised eyes as if she had
asked a question, but it had sounded more like an accusation to Gresham. The
hairs on his neck tickled.

A bottle of whisky was finally delivered to
their table, and he poured them each a glass. Their eyes locked as they sipped
the cheap, harsh whisky. “My station is in Alexandria, and I would prefer to
stay there out of harm’s way,” he said.

“I find that hard to believe,” she replied.
“You do not seem like a man who would care to sit behind a desk. I believe you
are meeting your army here; perhaps you arrived too early. Is this not closer
to the truth?”

“Miss Häberlin, I believe you are interrogating
me.”

She blushed and looked away. “No, Captain, I am
just curious. Or perhaps I do not wish you to leave.”

Thoughts swirled though Gresham’s mind and his
heart raced. He was saved from making a fool of himself when Killington and
Smyth-Davies came into the lounge for afternoon tea. Gresham excused himself
and immediately made his way out the back of the hotel.

He walked slowly through a winding path of
streets considering Miss Häberlin. She confused him, and that was a feeling he
didn’t especially enjoy. Was it simply her fine appearance upsetting him? No,
there was something else. Whatever it was, he had to know immediately. He
quickly retraced his steps and made his way down to the port.

Gresham went straight to the spice shop. The
old, blind man still sat in front as though he hadn’t moved in the past day,
and Athos was inside dozing. Gresham grabbed the young man’s arm and jerked him
around.

“A woman?” he asked accusingly.

Athos’ eyes lit up in surprise. Gresham drew a
handful of coins from his pocket and slammed them down on the table.

“The German who paid you to keep quiet is a
woman with short blonde hair, isn’t she?” he demanded, his heart racing.

“One, yes,” said Athos, eyeing the coins but
more afraid of Gresham than eager to pocket the money.

“Who are the others?!” Gresham yelled,
tightening his grasp on Athos’ arms.

“Just one other; I cannot say,” he pleaded, but
then in a harsh whisper he added: “Venizelos is coming. He must be warned.”

“The other, a man, means to kill the Prime
Minister?” Gresham asked in a whisper.

Athos nodded.

Gresham let go of the boy and caught his
breath, slowing his heartbeat. “You are a patriot after all,” he said coldly
and then turned and walked calmly out of the shop. The sun was just setting and
the docks and cafes were strangely quiet. At the mouth of
Kólpos
Thessaloníkis
Bay, a British Transport, HMT
Aeneas,
was lowering its
anchor. Gresham watched the ship a moment. The British had come. Then he
returned through the streets full of Serbian refugees to his hotel.

           
Even as the train pulled into the Salonika station, Wilkins could hear the
cheers of the huge crowd waiting to greet the Prime Minister. There were
thousands of Greek men and women standing around the station and the tracks
hoping to catch a glimpse of the man they considered to be the true
representative and protector of the Hellenic people. Between the sunset and the
smoke and steam of the coal-fired train engine, the view was murky, yet a huge
cheer arose from the front of the crowd as Venizelos stepped out onto the train
platform. Those in the back could not hear his words as Venizelos briefly
thanked the crowd and stepped quickly into a waiting automobile, followed by an
entourage of important looking men, and was rushed away.

           
Wilkins got into the third car with several men he had not yet met, uncertain
whether he ought to go with Venizelos or search for Gresham. First, he would
see where Venizelos was staying, he decided. The car rushed through the streets
of Salonika until the motorcade stopped on Aristotelous Street in a formal
square of white stone townhouses reminiscent of Belgravia. The door of Wilkins’
sedan suddenly flew open and a young Gendarme thrust his head into the
automobile.

           
“Captain Wilkins,
το Premier
επιθυμεί να
μιλήσω μαζί
σας αμέσως
.”

           
“Yes, yes, I am on my way,” he replied in English, in his rush to get out of
the sedan. Venizelos wanted him urgently. Something must have happened.

           
Wilkins was rushed across the street and into an elegant townhouse and up the
staircase into a sitting room crowded with Gendarmes, soldiers, sailors and
civilians. The diplomat, Politis, strode purposefully up to Wilkins.

           
“There you are, sir,” he said. “It seems our arrival in Salonika coincides with
that of your navy: A British troop transport has just anchored in the bay and a
delegation is coming from the ship.”

           
“They’ve arrived already?” asked Wilkins, surprised that his work as liaison
would commence so suddenly.

           
“There’s more. The Austrians are bombarding Belgrade again – a thousand guns –
and there are skirmishes on the eastern border with infantry companies of the
Bulgarian army. It appears the invasion is imminent.”

           
“Clearly. I shall remain here at your disposal, sir, until relieved by my
superiors.”

           
“Excellent. We expect the delegation from the transport ship momentarily.
Please excuse me,” said Politis, and he disappeared into the crowd. Wilkins
stepped to a nearby buffet and poured himself a glass of wine. More and more
men were crowding into the small sitting room. Wilkins would have to stay and
Gresham would have to wait.

           
There was only one innkeeper at Gresham’s hotel who spoke any English, but she
knew that Gresham was attached to the small Red Cross group and therefore had
no objection to providing Gresham with their room numbers. There was only one
number he truly cared to know.

           
Gresham bounded up the stairs to the third floor. The hotel guests were used to
loud men charging through the hallways at night and banging on doors. At
Häberlin’s door, he stopped and drew his M1911 handgun, loaded the firing
chamber and flipped off the safety. With a surge of adrenaline, he raised his
boot and kicked the door as hard as he could. The door flew open. Häberlin was
standing at the window, writing by candlelight in a small leather-bound
notebook. Her eyes flew up in shock. “What are you doing?” She shouted.

Gresham saw she was unarmed, but he held his
handgun pointed at her just to be certain as he entered the room and closed the
door behind him.

“There is no need for these dramatics, Captain.
I have no weapon. Do you intend to shoot an unarmed Swiss Red Cross nurse in
her hotel room?”

“You’re no nurse, fräulein” he spat back.

“You are certainly no tourist, but I am indeed
a nurse and a citizen of Switzerland, Captain.”

“Then why are you collecting information?”

“We are not in England. I remind you that I am
a citizen of a neutral country, and we are in a neutral country.”

“Are you working with another German agent in
Salonika?”

“No, of course not! I have no idea if there are
German agents in Salonika. I know nothing of such things.”

“Then who are you spying for?”

“I think you have been too long in the war,
Captain. Please sit down and put that pistol away. I fear you will be deeply
disappointed in me.”

As Häberlin stepped to the dresser, laid down
her notebook and poured two short glasses of whisky, Gresham watched her
closely and sat on the edge of the bed. She brought him a glass, and he lowered
his gun and sipped. He realized only then that Häberlin was standing before him
in only her skirt and a very thin, grey wool undershirt. Her arms and legs were
bare. She was thin but looked very strong. Gresham’s head was pounding and the
whisky wasn’t helping.

“I admit to you that I have sent personal
letters to my uncle in Munich. Yes, he is in the German army, an artillery
Colonel. What he does with my letters, I have no idea; perhaps he throws them
in the fire. There has been nothing to tell. It is no secret at all that
British troops are coming to Salonika. You are the first British officer I have
seen since I arrived here from Prishtina two weeks ago. If there are, truly,
Germans collecting information here as well, as you suspect, then I know
nothing of it and my efforts to assist my uncle are all the more meaningless.”

Gresham looked deeply into her sparkling hazel
eyes. Did he believe her? He couldn’t decide. If she was truly a Swiss Red
Cross nurse, as she said – a claim that could perhaps be confirmed – it would
strongly suggest she was harmless. He gulped the rest of his whisky, placed the
glass on the bed, and stood. He stepped closer, his heart pounding harder.

She looked down at her glass and found she had
already finished her drink.

With a grimace, Häberlin looked up at Gresham.
“If I knew any more, I would tell you, I promise,” she pleaded.

Gresham’s left hand still held the Browning
M1911, but his right moved around to the small of her back. His fingers touched
the warm, soft skin beneath her thin undershirt. He pulled her forward and held
her tightly, and they kissed.

           
Wilkins walked behind Venizelos down the stairs to the large dining room where
the small British delegation was waiting to meet them. The room was crowded
with representatives of the local Gendarmes, national and local Greek
government officials including several cabinet ministers, and several Greek
naval and military leaders, as well as the three British officers from the
transport ship HMT
Aeneas
. When Venizelos entered, the room quieted
instantly. The British officers stood, and Wilkins was startled to see his own commander
from Suvla Bay standing at the head of the British delegation.

           
“My name,” began the tall, efficient and clean-cut British commander, “is
General Sir Bryan Mahon. I am here on behalf of His Majesty King George the
Fifth.”

           
“I have been asked to speak for the men in this room,” said Venizelos humbly,
“even though I am merely a former member of the government of Greece. My name
is Eleftherios Venizelos.”

           
General Mahon’s eyebrows rose suddenly. “I was led to believe that you are the
Prime Minister of Greece. Are you not, sir?”

           
“Not today, no, General.”

“Then I must ask you plainly by what authority
you speak for the King.”

           
“We will get to that, General,” said Venizelos. “Please, be seated.”

           
Those around the wide mahogany dining table sat, but two dozen more of the many
Greeks in the room had to remain standing stolidly for lack of chairs.
Venizelos continued:

           
“First, General, allow me to share some recent news with you. Earlier today,
soldiers of the Austro-Hungarian Empire entered Serbia, again. They are
currently attempting to seize the capital city of Belgrade, and the Serbian
government has withdrawn to the city of Prishtina. We have also learned that
the armies of Bulgaria plan to enter Serbian territory within the next two
days. Already small incursions are taking place all along the eastern border,
testing Serbia’s defenses.”

“So the invasion has already begun, and we are
too late,” said Mahon grimly.

“Just so. In light of the threat to Greece’s
sovereignty, Major General Zymvrakakis,” gesturing to a uniformed officer
seated at the table, who nodded his acknowledgment of his name, “in his
capacity as the regional commander of His Majesty King Constantine’s armed forces,
has declared martial law in the Macedonian provinces of Greece.”

           
“Then I should be speaking directly with the General, as he is in charge in
Salonika. Is that correct?” asked Mahon.

           
“Yes, that is precisely so. However, General Zymvrakakis has asked me to speak
for him as he has no English,” said Venizelos pleasantly, despite Mahon’s
brusque manner. “The armed forces of Greece are concerned with the security of
Greece. The gendarmes, which are currently under the authority of Minister
Zannas,” gesturing to another man seated at the table, “are concerned with the
Serbian refugee issue: As you may have noticed on your way here from the port,
there are already several thousand civilian Serbian refugees in Salonika, and
we anticipate there will be many thousands more before very long.”