Alan raised himself in his chair, saying urgently: ‘They’re telling you to put out that cigarette,’ but he spoke too late.
The police were armed. One drew his revolver and fired. Tandy ducked and Yakimov folded slowly. He said in a whisper of puzzled protest: ‘Dear boy!’ and collapsed to the ground. His face retained the expression of his words. He seemed about to speak again but, when Harriet knelt beside him, his breathing had stopped. She pulled his coat open and put her hand on his heart: ‘I think he’s dead,’ she said.
As she spoke, Guy, who had been watching, dazed by what had happened, was suddenly possessed by rage and went to the rail and shouted down: ‘You murderous swine! Do you know what you’ve done? Do you care? You bloody-minded maniacs!’
The police stared up, blank-faced, understanding him no more than Yakimov had understood them.
The shot had brought people to the terrace, among them the hotel manager. Harassed by all the bustle inside the hotel, he had neither time nor sympathy for what had happened outside. He looked at the body and ordered those around it: ‘Take him away,’ but as no one could leave during a raid, he turned in exasperation and went in again.
Harriet pulled Yakimov’s coat about his body and a waiter covered his face with a napkin. When she stood up, she felt dizzy. Spent by the accumulation of events, she collapsed into a chair. Midnight chimed on some distant clock.
Ben Phipps asked Alan where Yakimov lived. No one knew, but Alan thought it was one of the small hotels in Omonia Square. He said with the practicality of shock: ‘No point in taking him there; no point in taking him anywhere. If they’ll let us, the thing would be to leave him here. He’ll have to be buried first thing tomorrow. We may all be gone in twenty-four hours. Where’s Tandy? Tandy lives in the hoteclass="underline" he’s the one to talk to the manager.’
But Tandy, unnoticed by any of them, had gone to bed.
‘Trust him,’ Ben said bitterly. ‘Not much bed for the rest of us. It’ll take all night to sort things out. When’s this damned raid going to end?’
The manager, his fury forgotten, returned with the police. They talked to Alan, making gestures of compunction and inculpability, and explained that the man who fired had intended only to frighten his victim. Yakimov’s death had been an error. The fact that he was an Englishman made the incident particularly regrettable, but he had disobeyed an order twice repeated; and in these times there were so many deaths!
They looked at the body. They wanted to see Yakimov’s carte d’identité, his permis de séjour, his permis de travailler, and his passport. When all the papers had been found in different pockets of Yakimov’s clothing, his long, narrow corpse was rewrapped in its greatcoat as in a shroud, and the napkin rearranged over his face.
One of the police handed back Yakimov’s passport and gave a salute and a little bow. The English would be troubled no further. The victim was free to go to his grave.
The manager agreed to let the body rest for the night in one of the hotel bathrooms. The four friends followed as it was carried away from the terrace and placed on a bathroom floor. As the door was locked upon it, the all clear sounded. The manager, offering his commiserations, shook hands all round and the English party left the hotel. Alan, hourly expecting an evacuation order, had decided to spend the night in his office. Ben Phipps, on his way to Psychico, dropped the Pringles off at the Academy.
A message was waiting for Guy on the pad in the hall. He was to ring Lord Pinkrose at Phaleron no matter how late his return. Harriet stood beside him as he dialled the number. The Phaleron receiver was removed at once and Pinkrose asked in an agitated scream: ‘Is that you, Pringle? The Germans are less than six hours from Athens. They’ll be here by morning. If you’re wise, you’ll go at once.’
‘But how can we go?’ Guy asked. ‘There are no ships.’
‘Get down to the Piraeus. Board anything you can see. Make them take you.’
‘We’ve been ordered to stand by …’ Guy protested, but Pinkrose was not listening. His receiver was replaced.
‘Is that what he intends doing himself?’ Harriet asked. ‘Do you think he’s going to the Piraeus to get on to any ship he can see?’
‘God knows. Let’s pack our things and think about it.’
The upper corridor was in darkness. No light was showing under any of the bedroom doors. They met no one whom they could ask for guidance. The silence was such, the building might, for all they knew, have emptied in their absence.
As they got their belongings together, Harriet asked: ‘Why do you think he warned us like that?’
‘I suppose he feels some responsibility for us. He’s still my boss, you know.’
‘I wish he hadn’t bothered.’
Their indecision was painful. Guy hung over his books, sorting out those that could be left behind and collected one day, when the war was over. Harriet threw her things pell-mell into a suitcase, then fell on to her bed and, lying there, eyes closed, felt herself sinking down into the darkness of the earth.
‘Well, what do we do now?’ Guy asked.
Rousing herself, she saw him standing in the middle of the wide, bare floor, his shirt-collar open, his shirt-sleeves rolled up. He was holding a book she knew well; the book that six months before he had picked out of the wreckage of their Bucharest flat. He was trying to look undaunted by events, but the droop of his face told her that he was as tired as she was and had no more answer than she to the problems that beset them. He presented an unruffled front to life, but she saw he was as much at sea as she was.
They had learnt each others’ faults and weaknesses: they had passed both illusion and disillusion. It was no use asking for more than anyone could give.
War had forced their understanding. Though it was, as Guy said, a pre-war marriage, it had been a marriage in war, and the war had not ended yet. For all they knew it would not end in their lifetime. Meanwhile, they were still alive and still together; and they must face their commitments. She had chosen to make her life with Guy and would stand by her choice. The important thing, she thought, was that in a final contingency, they should not fail each other.
She asked: ‘What do you want to do?’ He sighed. She held out her arms to him and he crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, saying: ‘Do you want to go down to the Piraeus now? Do you want to force your way on to some boat that is not meant for us? There are hundreds of English people here, some with children – they have as much right to go as we have. If everyone scrambled down to the docks and fought their way on to boats reserved for Yugoslavs and Poles, there’d be chaos. We don’t want to make things worse for others. I feel we should take our chance with the rest. I don’t believe they’ll abandon us.’
‘Neither do I.’
She put her arms round him and he lay down beside her. Too tired to undress, they slept, each holding the other secure upon the narrow bed.
Next morning, all the inmates of the hotel were sitting round the breakfast table, subdued, but scarcely more subdued than usual. Guy said: ‘Someone told us last night that the Germans were only six hours from Athens. He seemed to think they’d be here by morning.’
‘They’re not here yet,’ Tennant said. He smiled and, knowing things were too far gone for rebuttal, said slowly: ‘But your informant was partly right. We heard that German parachute troops had dropped on Larissa, but that didn’t mean they were coming straight here. They’ve still got to negotiate the pass at Thermopylae, the old invaders’ bottleneck. Of course, it’s not as narrow as it was. When the Spartans held it against Xerxes it was only twenty-five feet at the narrowest point. Now … how wide is it, would you say?’ Tennant turned to consult his colleagues.