A New Kind of War (6 page)

He turned on Audley savagely. ‘I’ve told you why we were up there, on that bloody path of yours—but what the devil is happening here?’

‘
Doucement, doucement
!’ murmured Kyriakos, touching his arm above the elbow. ‘
Doucement, mon vieux
—
eh?’

‘It’s not my bloody f-f-fault!’ protested Audley, his voice lifting. ‘I’ve got to explain you both to the Brigadier himself—
damn
!’ The jeep lurched over fallen stone from another ruined building which half-blocked the road. ‘He’ll want to know … I know how his mind works … And if you don’t want to go all the way back to Athens with us, while he checks your story—I’m trying to
help
you, damn it!’

‘Of course, of course!’ Kyriakos soothed them both. ‘It is all my fault —’ He squeezed Fred’s arm ‘—
my
fault, old boy.’

The jeep stopped abruptly, having climbed steeply out of Osios Konstandinos, up an apology for a track which only a jeep could have attempted, short of a tracked vehicle. Certainly nothing with either wheels or tracks could ever have penetrated further than this point, where huge boulders blocked the way, leaving only a narrow path hardly fit for mules … although there were buildings of some sort higher up, just visible through a scatter of pines under an uprearing cliff high above them.

‘Your fault?’ The buildings ahead were roofless and ruined. Half the bloody world was roofless and ruined, thought Fred savagely. Or half of the poor, innocent, impoverished villages of Greece and Italy seemed to be ruined, anyway, as the price of their resistance and liberation, no matter how inaccessible. And as this was Kyri’s country that thought suffused him with guilt—guilt all the more irredeemable because he was here because the Greek had invited him home as his guest, for wine and a soft bed if not for some dark-eyed virgin. ‘It isn’t your fault, Kyriakos.’

‘Oh, but it is, old boy.’ Kyriakos began to climb out of the jeep. ‘An Englishman teaching
me
about Markos Botsaris—in Osios Konstandinos!’ He straightened up, and then pointed. ‘Look there! Do you see—?’

‘What?’ Audley followed Kyriakos’s instruction first.

‘Yes, I do! By God—
eagles
!’ He pointed. ‘Do you see them—? They said in Athens that there’d be eagles here!’

Fred looked upwards, and saw that the bloody birds were still circling above the cliff, knife and fork in claw, and napkins knotted ready.

Kyriakos cleared his throat. ‘I meant the cliff—the path goes up that gulley—and then across, to where that tree sticks out, under the overhang … ’

‘Yes.’ Fred couldn’t see. But what he could see was that, whatever happened in 1824, one burst from Sergeant Devenish’s machine-gunners would have turned Osios Konstandinos into a surrender-or-die trap. Except …
except
… if the sergeant’s own position had itself been taken in the rear, by someone coming up that path behind him, on the other side of the impossible cliff … then that would have ruined the trap, of course.

‘They
are
eagles, aren’t they?’ Audley had retrieved a fine pair of German binoculars from the jeep, and was struggling to adjust them.

‘You are a bird-watcher too?’ Kyri’s voice was hollow with disbelief, as it had been with the thirteenth century. ‘As well as an historian?’

‘No’. Audley lowered the binoculars quickly. ‘It’s just … everybody keeps asking me whether I’ve seen them, and I’m tired of telling lies, that’s all.’ He grinned at the Greek.. ‘It was the same with the 88s in Normandy—I never could see the bloody things, when everyone else could, don’t you know … But that was Botsaris’ cliff—was it? Or … is it?’

‘You were in Normandy?’ The Greek frowned as though one so young could not have been allowed to participate in a real war.

‘Yes.’ Audley’s mouth opened, and then closed again, wordlessly. ‘It was very unc-c-c—
unpleasant
, I can tell you … Greece is infinitely more p-p-p—
agreeable
.’ He grinned unashamedly. ‘No G-Germans—no 88s—eh?’ The grin became disarming. ‘That’s the monastery up there, is it? The one the Turks burnt in ’24?‘

‘Yes.’ But now Kyriakos was dead-serious. ‘You haven’t been here before, then?’ He blinked. ‘Somebody told you about the path, did they?’

Audley blinked back at him. ‘Actually …
no
…
But it’s all in Pemberton about the path, and Markos Botsaris. There was a map too—’ The half grin became a frown ‘—why d’you want to know? Are you an historian?’

‘No. I am merely a Greek.’ Kyriakos glanced at Fred. ‘And once I was also a banker.’ Someone was shouting at them, through the trees. ‘A …
what
—
?’ Audley struggled with this intelligence, against the shout. ‘A …
banker
—
?’

‘Merchant banker,’ elaborated Kyriakos. But then not even he could ignore the figure which was approaching them, its hob-nailed boots cracking on the stony track like caps in a child’s pistol. Audley quailed. ‘What is it, Mr Levin?’

‘
Sar!’
The RSM somehow contrived to look immaculate, even under a fine coating of dust. ‘The Brigadier and the Colonel have both been asking for you, Mr Audley—
sar!
He addressed Audley from beneath a quivering Guards’ salute, totally ignoring Fred and Kyriakos. ’They wish to hear about your prisoners—
sar!‘

‘Ah! … ’ Audley managed something between a wave and a clenched fist gesture, which he rendered even more equivocal by ending up scratching the back of his neck ‘ … well, they’re not exactly …
prisoners
, Mr Levin. But never mind … ’ he trailed off humbly.

‘As you wish, Mr Audley—
sar!’
The RSM pronounced the words like a formula dissolving all but the inescapable links between himself and the author of that parody-of-a-salute. ‘If-you-will-permit-me-to-return-to-my-duties-then—
sar!’

‘Why … yes, of course, Mr Levin. Do carry on, please.’

‘
Sar!’
The RSM swept past them down the track. And as sure as God made little apples he would see where the Mendip corporal had pissed on the rear wheel of that lorry, thought Fred. So there were two stripes gone for a Burton.

‘Well … that was Mr Levin!’ murmured Audley, to no one in particular. ‘We just don’t seem to hit it off … I had a much better relationship with my old troop sar-major in the Wesdragons. But, of course, Mr Levin was a peace-time soldier before the war … and my old sar-major ran our local garage at Steeple Horley.’ He shook his head sadly, as though in another world. ‘But he’s dead, of course … and now he’s really dead.’ He stared at Fred suddenly. ‘Funny to think of that—isn’t it? Becoming
really
dead?’

The question caught Fred by surprise. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘He means … now that
your
war is nearly finished, then the dead can become properly dead,’ snapped Kyriakos harshly. ‘And the survivors can become properly alive at last.’

Fred was shocked by the Greek’s intensity. ‘Our … war?’

Kyriakos nodded at Audley. ‘Your war is almost finished—no Germans here—not in Greece any more. And now, if the truce holds … if you are both lucky, then your war
is
finished. So you will go home—’ He switched to Fred ‘—to your merchant banking—’ Back to Audley again ‘—and you to … Cambridge, was it? Girls in punts, and the odd lecture?’ He showed his teeth in a wolfish grin. ‘I was up at Cambridge in ’39. My father called me home in October—we thought it was just
your
war.‘ The grin became unnaturally fixed. ’We thought the Balkan Mercantile Bank and the Aegean Mutual Trust stood to make a lot of money out of you British, one way or another. And now my father is dead, and my two brothers are dead … But my war is not finished—perhaps it is only just beginning. So that makes a difference—yes?‘

‘Yes.’ Audley nodded stupidly, like a ventriloquist’s dummy. ‘You’ve b-b-b … bloody
got
it: they’re not d-d-
dead
yet, quite? Because you can still join them—right?’ He stopped nodding. ‘You’re the first one I’ve met who knows what I’m talking about—would you believe that?’ Fred felt anger stir, beyond shock and unreality and incomprehension, as they both blocked him out with their private joke, which was no joke at all. But pride refused to let him show how he felt: they each understood too well what the other was saying for him to admit that he didn’t measure up to their insight, whatever it was they shared. So he couldn’t say anything.

The Balkan Mutual Trust?‘ Audley found another joke. ’I w-wouldn’t have thought that there was m-much m-mutual …
trust
…
anywhere in the b-b-bloody Balkans?‘

Kyriakos raised his chin arrogantly. ‘
Aegean
Mutual Trust—
Balkan
Mercantile Bank, Mr Audley,—
sar!’
He grinned at Audley, under the arrogance. ‘How about letting us both return-to-our-duties, eh? Like … you could talk a jeep out of your adjutant, to take us to Itea, maybe?’ He carefully didn’t look at Fred. ‘How about that, then?’

Audley looked at Fred, nevertheless. ‘You know each other because your families are both in merchant banking—? The Fattorini Brothers—the Mutually Trusting Balkans? But how did you both end up … back there, on the path—“lurking”, was it?’

Kyriakos tossed his head. ‘As you said—“Fattorini” isn’t a common name in the British Army.’ He gave Fred a quick glance. ‘I was with the Canadians last year, and we were stalled on this river, over which your engineers were throwing this Bailey bridge. And I heard someone shout for “Captain Fattorini” … and my family’s bank has acted for the Fattorini bank in Greece ever since the First World War.’

Fred nodded. ‘That’s right—ever since
his
father met
my
uncle—Uncle Luke—in Salonika, in the Military Hospital, in 1918. They were two young bankers in adjoining beds, each with Bulgarian bullets in them. So they exchanged addresses.’

‘And then they did business. Out of which came the first Aegean Mutual Trust.’ The Greek took his cue. ‘And last year I saw this appalling mud-covered apparition. But I thought … “Fattorini” isn’t a common name in the British Army. So I gave it an address in Athens, where I intended to be.’

‘Coincidence,’ agreed Fred. ‘Just like you swanning up in your jeep back there, Dave Audley—and thinking that “Fattorini” isn’t a common name in the British Army. So when I finally reached Athens—’

‘Okay! Okay!’ Audley surrendered. That’ll do fine. In fact, it couldn’t be better …
And
I’ll get you transport—Itea, was it?‘

The youth’s sudden confidence pricked Fred’s curiosity. ‘What’s so fine about it?’

‘Oh … it was fine all along, actually.’ Audley grinned disarmingly.

‘It was?’ Fred’s curiosity overweighed his irritation.

‘Why?’

The Brigadier will like you, even if my Colonel doesn’t.‘ The grin twisted. The Brigadier may not go much on coincidences, but he does love rich men. And bankers—
merchant
bankers … one merchant banker—good …
two
merchant bankers—you’ll brighten up a bad day for him, I shouldn’t wonder, by golly!’ He pointed through the trees. ‘Come on! You’re just what I need!’ He stepped out ahead of them. ‘
Two
bloody bankers—!’ Kyriakos raised his shoulders eloquently, and rolled his eyes at Fred. But then he moved quickly after Audley. ‘But why—why does he like rich men?’

Fred accelerated after them. Five wasted years—three of boredom, one-and-a-half of discomfort and terror, plus an aggregation of odd months of other experiences, including disillusion and, during the last hour, more terror—those years ought to have inured him to anything the army could imagine for his further education. But Lieutenant Audley and his Brigadier were something beyond the ordinary lunacies.

‘Rich—
men.’
panted Kyriakos, in Audley’s wake. Through the last scatter of trees Fred saw the ruins more clearly, and remembered what Kyriakos had said a lifetime earlier: this was the little monastery the Turks had smashed up, presumably in revenge for Markos Botsaris’ escape up that cliff just behind it. ‘Bankers—?’ Kyriakos tried again, breathlessly. This was the sharp end of the operation, the sounds of which they had heard on the other side of that cliff, Fred saw at a glance. Not only were the soldiers here alert, and very different from the smokers and pissers down below, but there was a line of groundsheeted corpses, with their protruding feet indicating their origin: three good pairs of army-issue boots, and then a dozen anonymous pairs, scuffed and pathetic—
no
…
there were two feet at the end, encased in jack-boots, or something like—

‘Bankers?’ Audley finally registered the question, but then dismissed it as a figure ducked out from a narrow monastic doorway. ‘
Amos
! Is the Brigadier in there?’

‘He is, dear boy.’ The figure straightened up, and became a captain in a Very Famous Regiment who gazed past Audley at Fred and Kyriakos with mild astonishment. ‘Are these your prisoners? But, dear boy, they can’t be—they positively
can’t
be!’ The gaze, with one eyebrow delicately raised, flicked from Fred to Kyriakos, finally coming back to Fred. ‘He’s expecting a couple of desperadoes … But you’ve got a Sapper there … and I know that Sappers are notoriously eccentric … But this is preposterous—quite preposterous!’ He returned to Audley, shaking his head. ‘He’s not at all pleased, I warn you, David, dear boy. I should run away if I were you—that’s what I’d do.’ His voice was quite conversational as he returned to Fred. ‘I admit that you
look
like one of ours … But are you?’

Before Fred could answer, or even open his mouth, Audley jumped in. ‘Of course he is! And you’re quite wrong, Amos: I’m just about to become quite p-p-p-pop-pop-pop —’

‘Pop-popular?’ The man’s eyes didn’t leave Fred. ‘I doubt it very much. But who am I to keep you from a posting to Burma?’ The eyes pinned Fred for another second, and then the languid captain smiled ruefully.