Perhaps it is vanity after all that has led me to wander from my theme. Harvey had had in mind, of course, the second and, in the context, more significant sense in which the Levant is my place. My knowledge of Greek and Turkish, virtually that of a native in both cases, and the influence of my foster-father soon secured me a place in the appropriate section of the Overseas Office. I was thus already in possession of information necessary to the understanding of at least part of the contents of the folder. I knew, for instance, that after literally centuries of struggle and in response to pressure from the Allied Powers (Great Britain, France and Russia), Turkey withdrew the last of her troops from the island of Crete in November 1898. One of the documents in the folder proved to bear the name of a Cretan village and a date in January 1899.
These documents varied in category and provenance. Some were straightforward signals or decodes; others were reports of assorted lengths, many of them copies of notes the British agents in the field had delivered to what would in these days be termed their control — the location of which I will not even now divulge. What I had before me was an account of an operation assembled from the control’s dispatches to London and additional matter supplied here which I will refer to as I go along. A more or less connected story emerged. I have amused myself, having as I do something of a literary turn of mind, by dramatizing that story wherever possible. I assure you that I have neither added nor altered anything of substance.
Let me begin with information from the official dossiers of the two agents involved. The younger, Michael Courtenay, had been born in 1870, educated at Rugby and Brasenose and recruited by the Department (nowhere referred to by any fuller title) in 1895; he was expert in opening locked doors, safes and the like; his interests, perhaps rather quaintly, embraced cricket and the then new-fangled science of psychology. A photograph in poor condition nevertheless showed him to have been a broad-shouldered, heavy-featured young man with a determined look. His superior officer was eight years his senior, Guy Barnes by name, of similar education and a distinguished record of service in the Department. With his unruly hair and wide eyes he resembled, I thought, a poet or musician rather than the severely practical creature required by his trade.
Far above the head of either man it had been concluded that, however warmly to be welcomed on other considerations, the Turkish departure raised certain hazards for the Allies. It rendered the island more vulnerable to the intervention of third parties, of which the most likely was Italy, lately in aggressive mood, her disastrous Abyssinian adventure concluded only two years before — not that she showed at the moment any sign of an interest in Crete. The departure itself might be a feint, a prelude to return in greater strength — not that this was foreshadowed by any known development in Constantinople. What was quite certain was that the newly appointed High Commissioner for the island, Prince George of Greece, had arrived to take up his office on 21 December 1898, and hardly less so that he had enemies there and near by. All in all an unobtrusive intensification of vigilance seemed desirable. Together with his colleagues in the area, Courtenay received orders to keep an eye on comings and goings, to watch for and report anything which his two and a half years’ local experience told him was unusual. He passed the message on to his village informants and settled down to wait in the little shipping Office that disguised his true function.
He had only a short time to wait. Early in that January there came to see him a middle-aged fisherman whom I will call Vassos and who had shown himself to be reliable and observant. Courtenay asked for coffee to be brought. (He does not say so, but since in the Greek-speaking world nothing of importance is ever discussed except over coffee I have thought the inference a safe one, like others I have drawn here and there.)
‘You have news for me, Vassos?’
‘Yes, kyrie. I don’t know what it means, but it is news.’
‘We will try to understand it together. Speak.’
The visitor was silent for a short space. Courtenay thought he seemed agitated about something. (This he does say.) Finally he began: ‘Last night I take out my boat to go to my lobster pots, near the side of the bay where there is the headland with the big house on it.’
‘I know the place. Go on, man.’
‘I beg pardon, kyrie. I have reached the pots but not brought out my lantern when a light flashes from the house. That surprises me because I think the house is empty, as it has been for over a year, but then I remember the chandler has told me three men have come to it a week ago. While I watch, the light flashes again, and it flashes on and off, on and off, twice, like that, and then all the house is dark. Then I look out to sea and there another light flashes, and again all else is dark, and this is much more strange, because now I hear an engine, a big one, and what must I think of a ship with a big engine all dark except for the flashes in these waters where there are so many small craft? So I wait, and soon the ship comes, and she is big, bigger than my cousin’s kayik. She’s just passing me when some more lights come on, at the landing-stage under the house, but they are dim, as if someone has smoked the glass of the lanterns, just enough to see by, except… The anchorage is too small for the ship to tie up alongside, so she turns and comes in stern first, beam on to me. When they’re ready, some people disembark; they have the dim lanterns too.’
‘How many?’ asked Courtenay.
This harmless question evidently troubled Vassos. He swallowed and said, ‘Either sixteen or seventeen, kyrie.’
‘That’s near enough. All men?’
‘Ten at least, kyrie. With some I couldn’t be sure.’
‘Did you get a good look at any of them?’
Vassos said in a changed tone, ‘Once there was a bright light for some seconds, perhaps a match, and I saw… I saw… no, I could not have seen.’
‘What could you not have seen? What ails you?’
‘No, kyrie, forgive me, I can’t say. On the head of St Peter I swear it was nothing you asked me to look for.’
‘Oh, very well. Did anyone see you?’
‘Certainly not. I waited till they were all gone and then I paddled away; I didn’t even row at first.’
‘Excellent. Can you take me out there? We will be two fishermen who happen to be passing.’
‘When, kyrie?’
‘Now, if possible.’
After some thought, Vassos said, ‘Better tomorrow morning, kyrie, I will speak to my cousin. Can you be at the harbour by six o’clock?’
‘Yes. You’ve done well, Vassos. Here.’
‘Evkharisto, kyrie.’
‘Parakalo. Kal’ iméra sas.’
A couple of hours after Vassos had left the office, a large, well-built young man with baggy trousers and a dirty face was riding an elderly donkey along the path that led from the base of the headland to the house at its tip. When still some fifty yards from his objective he found his way barred by a freshly painted iron railing with what proved to be a locked gate in it. There was a bell attached to this gate, but instead of ringing it, the obvious course, the new arrival tied up his mount to the railing and wandered in apparent perplexity along it first to his left, finding that it ended at a precipice, or rather projected a yard into thin air, then in the other direction far enough to see that it ran down a broken slope to the water’s edge. Where it crossed naked rock each upright was rooted in a heavy cross-bar. Those three earlier residents had not wasted their week. The railing would not have kept out a determined and properly equipped intruder, but it was quite enough to see to it that idle curiosity remained unsatisfied. The intervention of some olive-trees and a dip in the ground gave a poor view of the house itself from the landward side of the railing, except that it appeared to be shaped like an L or perhaps a T and had one or more outbuildings close to it.