Dennis Wheatley - Mayhem in Greece

No time was given to Robbie to savour his victory. Nejedly was on his feet again, and had armed himself by snatching up a heavy, ebony ruler from Krajcir's desk. As Krajcir slumped to the floor, Nejedly hit Robbie a stunning crack on the back of the head with the ruler. Robbie's eyes bulged. Then, against a curtain of blackness, he saw flashing stars and whirling circles.

With a groan, he lurched round. Nejedly was coming at him again. His sight cleared only just in time for him to glimpse the ruler held high. It was about to smash down into his face. Instinctively, he lifted a hand to ward off the blow. His hand caught Nejedly in the chest, halting the forward lunge of his shoulders. The jolt was sufficient to deflect his aim, and the ruler thudded down on Robbie's upper arm.

Again Robbie staggered back, but was brought up sharp by the edge of Krajcir's desk. The sudden impact below his buttocks nearly sent his legs flying outward from under him. As his head and shoulders went back, he thrust his right hand behind him for support. It landed on the semi-circular handle of Nejedly's heavy brief-case. Grasping it firmly he flung himself forward from the desk, drawing the brief-case after him in a wide, semicircular sweep. More by luck than judgment, it struck Nejedly on the side of the head and sent him spinning. The ruler flew out of his hand and, with outflung arms, he measured his length on the floor.

Robbie did not wait to see if he had knocked him out. Having temporarily got the better of both of his enemies, he took a deep breath and dashed for the door. In an instant, he was through it. A moment later, he had wrenched open the outer door of the agency and was in the courtyard. Still half dazed by the blow Nejedly had struck him on the back of the head, and much too excited by his first fight to think of anything but getting away, he ran as fast as his legs would carry him down the passage, out into the street and, dodging at considerable risk between two cars, across the road.

An angry shout from the policeman on point duty brought him to his senses; but by then the danger of his being run down was past. It was only then, too, that he realized that he was still clutching Nejedly's brief-case. A glance back at the far pavement showed him that he was not being pursued and, at a quick walk, he made his way round to the Grande Bretagne.

Up in his suite, he took stock of his injuries. His head was still aching abominably and, on gingerly feeling the place where he had been hit, he found it sticky with blood. He wondered uneasily if his skull was split and he ought to call in a doctor, but that would have meant answering some very awkward questions,

The wound did not seem to be bleeding much, so he decided to bathe it with cold water and leave it at that for the present. Now that he had stopped running and walking, his leg also began to pain him severely. Turning up his trouser leg, he found that Nejedly's kick had broken the skin over his shin bone; so there was blood there, too, and the flesh all round was already colouring up into a first-class bruise.

Old Nanny Fisher had taught him that cuts should always be washed clean with soap and water as soon as possible; so, stoically clenching his teeth against the pain, he scrubbed his leg ruthlessly, thoroughly washed his head, then bound a handkerchief round the one and made a towel into a turban for the other.

On his way from the bathroom through the narrow hallway of his little suite, he picked up the brief-case which he had thrown down there and carried it into the sitting-room. It was not locked, so he fished all the papers out of it and put them in a pile on his desk. His rough handling of himself when cleansing his wounds now paid a dividend, as by contrast they were throbbing only mildly, and, as soon as he realized what the papers were, he became so excited that he forgot his pain altogether.

There were some two dozen documents in all. Each was in an envelope addressed to Krajcir and marked 'Private', and the postmarks on the envelopes showed that they had come from different parts of Greece. The majority were handwritten, but a few were typed. The greater part were in Czech, but several were in Greek, three in English and two in German. None of them was addressed to a person, and their only signature was a number which differed in each case.

Inexperienced as Robbie was in such matters, after glancing through only a few it was plain to him that these were the reports of a network of secret agents. Except in particulars, they varied little. All of them were concerned with shipping, and principally naval shipping. From them could be built up a complete picture of the secret movements of every N.A.T.O. warship, American, British, Greek and Turkish, in the waters of the northeastern Mediterranean. Movements of oil tankers and supply ships were also covered. Where warships had been in, or lying off, ports, estimates were given of the number of men given shore leave, the state of their morale, and such political opinions as the majority of them appeared to hold. In a few cases, the names were given of men who nursed grievances against their officers, or who there was reason to believe were secretly pro-Communist.

It was evident that, for some reason, the Czechs considered it safer to have these secret reports sent to their Travel Agency rather than their Legation, and that Nejedly collected them from Krajcir once a week.

Robbie was naturally delighted with his haul. Although it was only a side-product of the mission he had set himself, he felt that indirectly it might prove a great help to him. That none of the names and addresses of the writers of the reports was given obviously detracted greatly from their value but, even so, it seemed certain that they would be of considerable interest to N.A.T.O. Intelligence, if only as a means of informing it of this great network of spies which was being run by the Czechs, no doubt at the orders of their Russian masters.

Sir Finsterhorn and Euan Wettering had poured scorn on Robbie's proposal that he should become a secret agent. Now he saw a rosy picture of himself casually presenting the results of his first coup, and of their regarding him with awe and a new respect. Blissfully he envisaged his uncle patting him on the shoulder, encouraging him to go on with his mission, and promising him the official help that had previously been denied.

So pleased with himself was Robbie that, his pains by now reduced to no more than dull aches, and feeling a little peckish from having skimped his dinner, he decided to celebrate by treating himself to an epicure's supper. One of the discoveries he had made while living at the Embassy was caviare and, having no idea how costly it was, he always regretted that it was doled out there in quite small portions. Picking up the house telephone, he rang down for six portions to be sent up to him with plenty of hot toast, then he ordered a bottle of French champagne to wash it down.

Scooping up the collection of reports, he thrust them back into the brief-case and snapped it shut. Then he went into his bedroom to tidy himself up. He had been sitting in his shirt and pants, but the collar of the shirt had become dirty and creased as a result of his fight and the cuffs had got wet when he washed his hair. Now he changed it for a clean one of white silk and, as he felt in festive mood, he put on a dinner jacket and black trousers. But he kept the towel wrapped round his head in the form of a turban from fear that, if he removed it, that might start his scalp bleeding again.

Perhaps it was the rather rakish air that the turban gave him but, as he glanced at himself in the mirror, it suddenly struck him that he was quite a fine-looking fellow. Yet his next thought saddened him a little. Although he might appear a fine figure of a man to himself, it was clear that women did not find him in the least attractive, for not one of them—that is, of anywhere near his own age—had ever taken more than a passing interest in him.