Kingdoms Fall - The Laxenburg Message (17 page)

“
Αυτό
είναι
κατάσκοπος για
τη Γερμανία.
Έχει ζωτική
σημασία
πληροφορίες
για τον
πρωθυπουργό
,”
Wilkins told him.

Vasilakos eyed the two British officers and the
bleeding German man between them, and nervously ushered them into his kitchen.
Wilkins told how he and Gresham had captured the German spy, and, more
importantly, what the spy knew about the treaty and imminent invasion of
Serbia. Vasilakos was clearly worried and upset, but he was finally convinced
to run upstairs to dress and to fetch Prime Minister Venizelos to his home to
hear from the German directly.

Gresham found a bottle of cheap Greek wine in
the small dirty kitchen and poured a glass for himself and one for Muller. Then
he went to the sink to wash the blood from his hands. He and Wilkins fed Muller
wine through the night to keep him sedated and talkative. Near dawn, the back
door opened, and Vasilakos at last returned, followed by an older man in a neat
brown wool suit, the tails of his crisp white shirt hanging out and no necktie.
His face was lined, but his pointed grey beard and mustache were elegant and
neatly trimmed. He took his wire rim spectacles from his eyes and wiped them on
the tail of his shirt. He looked at Gresham and Wilkins, and then looked grimly
at Muller lying on the floor.

“Who are you men?” he demanded to know.

“Our names are not important,” said Gresham.
“We are British officers, as you can see. We discovered that this man is an
undeclared agent of the German government, a spy in your country. We have
questioned him, and have learned terrible news which we knew must be brought to
your attention immediately. We have brought him to the Gendarmes so that your
government can deal with him as you see fit.”

The Prime Minister sat down on a stool by the
door and scowled.

He spoke to Vasilakos in whispers for a few
moments as Gresham and Wilkins looked on. The Prime Minister became angry and
told Vasilakos to wait outside.

“This man is well known to us,” he said at last
to Gresham and Wilkins. “But we did not know he would have such information.
Please tell me exactly what he told you.”

Gresham knelt by Muller’s side and propped him
into a seating position, lightly grasping (and squeezing) the man’s shattered
elbow. “Muller, when did Germany and Bulgaria sign their treaty?”

“September 23,” he said.

“When does the invasion of Serbia begin?”

“October 7.”

“What will Bulgaria gain for its allegiance to
Germany?”

“Half of Serbia and Macedonia.”

The Prime Minister gasped and stood. “Germany
has promised parts of Macedonia to Bulgaria? What parts?!” he demanded.

“Eastern Macedonia and most of the Central
Macedonia.”

“Kavala?”

“Yes.”

“Vodena?”

“Yes.”

“This is outrageous! How can this have been
done without the King’s knowledge?” said the Prime Minister with disgust.

“King Constantine knows the terms,
mein Herr
.
Germany has promised Greece that the rest of your country will remain
unmolested.”

“Who is Germany to make such promises?! I see
the King’s perfidy all too clearly. He has sold off the most fertile parts of
Greece to guarantee its security. There would be revolution if this news was
made public.”

“Your Excellency,” said Wilkins, “As you know,
British and French troops have already embarked for Salonika to come to the aid
of Serbia. Will they be allowed to disembark in your homeland?”

Venizelos looked up at Wilkins, and his eyes
narrowed. “I see. If you wish to know my response, return here this evening.”
He turned and stepped out the back door where the Gendarmes were waiting to
escort the Prime Minister back to his home.

Wilkins turned to Chief of the Gendarmerie and
pointed at Muller. “
Θέλετε τον
?”
he asked.

The police chief shook his head and brushed his
hand away.

“We’ll take him with us,” Wilkins said to
Gresham.

They picked up Muller, who by now was deeply
asleep, and carried him out the back door and down the alleyway.

“What do we do with him,” Wilkins asked.

“I’ve made arrangements,” said Gresham. “I will
need to take ship to Salonika today. You must meet with Vasilakos tonight and
follow me to Salonika tomorrow.”

“Fine.”

“I’ll take Muller; you go back to the hotel and
have a big breakfast where everyone can see you.”

Gresham slapped the German to wake him and got
him onto his feet.

“I’ll take you home now, Ernst; you’ve been
very helpful.”

Muller grunted, half asleep, half drunk.

Gresham looked at Wilkins. “Go now,” he said
with a grim smile.

Wilkins walked briskly back to the street as
Gresham dragged Muller down the alleyway.

That afternoon, Wilkins awoke from a deep
sleep, dressed in a clean uniform and went down to the lobby for tea. The hotel
was abuzz with news of a brutal murder that had been discovered that morning.
An unknown British officer, understandably upset that his sister had been
disgraced and left with child, had reportedly shot his sister’s lover – a young
German businessman. The body was found in the street in front of the German’s
townhouse, shot twice in the arm and once in the head. The Gendarmerie was asking
after the British officer throughout the city, but he was believed to have
already fled by ship. Opinions were divided, but most believed the murder was
justified under the circumstances.

At dusk, Wilkins left the hotel and walked
calmly through the back alleyways to the home of Vasilakos. In the alley behind
the house, an older, burgundy-red Mercedes Phaeton sedan and its driver were
waiting. Wilkins knocked on the kitchen door. Vasilakos greeted Wilkins and led
him into the front sitting room, where Wilkins found Prime Minister Venizelos
sipping a cup of tea at a small round table with a bright red and yellow check
tablecloth.

“I have had a most unusual day, Mister British
officer,” said the Prime Minister. “Please sit.”

“Thank you, your Excellency.” Wilkins sat. The
Prime Minister appeared exhausted and careworn, the lines on his face looked
deeper, and he was clearly worried.

“Tell me, what is your name, British officer?”

“I am James Wilkins, sir.”

“Are you related to Lord Bartlett, Thomas
Wilkins?”

“He is my father.”

“I met your father in Paris two years ago. Please
give him my regards when you can – a most insightful man is your father; we
enjoyed many long discussions together.”

Wilkins was quite surprised to hear that his
father had met the Prime Minister. “I am gratified to hear your good opinion of
him, sir.”

“In your country,” Venizelos began, “King
George has very little power; it is your Parliament that runs Great Britain.
The recent Parliament Act took even more power away from your English Lords and
gave it to the elected representatives of your people. In this country,
however, the King still may do as he like, even when it opposes the will of his
people.”

“Then King Constantine will not allow the
Allied troops to land, sir?”

“The King finally agreed to meet with me this
afternoon after I had waited for five hours. While I waited, news arrived that
Austria is once again bombarding Belgrade and Austrian troops are prepared to
cross the western border of Serbia. At least 200,000 Bulgarian troops are
amassed on the eastern border now. King Constantine admitted me only after he
knew I had received this news. He stated to me plainly that he will not help
Serbia because he expects the Central Powers to win; he does not wish ‘to be
beaten,’ he said. So, no, the King will not honor his country’s agreements. Perhaps
he is correct that the treaty with Serbia is a dead letter, but to simply give
away our lands rather than defend them with our lives? That is a choice that
lacks honor. In my opinion the King no longer speaks for the Hellenes.”

“How did you reply, sir?”

“It was my duty to resign from the office of
Prime Minister; for the second time this year, I might add. I cannot serve both
my country and its King. Now, I must go to Salonika. I ask you to go with me.
When your ships arrive, we will find a way to land your troops. If the British
wish to see a pro-Entente government in Greece, they must protect me and the
men who oppose the King. The King will not like it, but he cannot prevent it.”

“Very well,” said Wilkins. “You have done what
you needed to do for your people, your Excellency. I will convey this to my
government.”

“I have already spoken to your envoy, Sir
Francis Eliot. I would prefer you to personally accompany me to Salonika. I
will need someone there who can explain this situation to your military commanders.
We will depart tomorrow morning on the 10.14 train.” Venizelos stood wearily,
“and your fellow officer, I hear, has already departed, yes?”

“Yes.” Wilkins stood. “I will see you at the
station in the morning, Your Excellency.”

 “Tomorrow, then,” said Venizelos, as he
rose slowly from his chair and shook Wilkins’ hand, and then Vasilakos escorted
the former Premier to his automobile in the alley behind the house.

G
resham was staring out
the window of his shabby little room on the second floor of the old hotel he
had found in Salonika. The port city on the northern end of the Aegean Sea was
busy with commercial shipping, and Gresham wondered what was carried in the many
ships arriving from America each day. The ships were unloaded, and their cargos
were re-loaded onto ships bound for Sevastopol, Constantinople, Varna,
Alexandria, Genoa, and Marseille. It seemed the Americans were making profit
off everyone in the Mediterranean and on both sides of the war and no doubt
reaping rich rewards at the expense of all Europe. The streets of Salonika were
filed with another sort of cargo: Refugees from Serbia. Already the hint of
invasion had spread through the Balkan country a mere sixty miles to the north,
and Serbian families were moving south into Greece in large numbers, crowding
the streets of Salonika with the hungry and homeless even as a cold autumn
began to set in.

Gresham turned away from the window. His little
room – an iron framed bed, a pine washstand, and a short stool – reminded him
of the cheap boarding house he had lived in with his mother as a small child,
even though his mother had kept their room much cleaner than this one. When
Wilkins arrived in Salonika, he would have to share the room, as it had taken a
huge amount of money just to secure this one. Out in the hall, groups of
Serbian men were banging on doors and causing trouble. Gresham checked his
handgun, and went to the door. He would wait in the public room a while and
have a little whisky and perhaps something to eat; Wilkins was not likely to
arrive for another day.

The hall and stairway were filthy with garbage
and Gresham noticed evidence of rats as he made his way into the public room.
With signs he asked the mistress of the house for food and drink. Nearby, a
group of men sat around another table; one was actually a woman in man’s
clothing, it seemed. They were laughing quietly as they spoke to each other.
After a moment, Gresham realized they were speaking English. He rose and
approached them and was immediately beckoned to the table.

“Well hello there,” said an older gentleman at
the table to Gresham. “A British Captain, how wonderful. Please join us, Sir.”

“Hello, my name is Gresham, David Gresham,” he
replied.

“Hello, hello,” replied a younger gentleman.
“I’m Peter Killington, and this is Delwyn Griffith and Geoffrey Smith-Davies.
We’re doctors come from England to join the Red Cross mission in Serbia. And
this lady is Miss Flora Sandes, one of our nurses.”

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you,” said Gresham.

“We’ve just arrived in Salonika a few days ago
and have been trying to find transportation to our station in Prilep,” said the
older man, Griffith. “No success so far. It’s beginning to look like Serbia is
cut off.”