Judgment on Deltchev

CHAPTER NINETEEN

When Pashik was secretly rewarded for his services to the Provisional Government with shares in and management of the Pan-Eurasian Press Service he was not unduly grateful. He had risked his life to serve a political ideal; but it was an ideal that in his mind belonged exclusively to the United States of America; elsewhere it was not valid. He had performed his service somewhat in the spirit of the prosperous immigrant to that country who endows a public library or a childbirth clinic in his native land. The act is charitable, but it is also a reparation, a propitiatory rite that makes the separation final and complete. For Pashik there was little satisfaction in the knowledge that his contribution had been so frankly and practically recognized. His pleasure in the gift resided in the fact that the agency’s clients were nearly all American and that he could feel, not preposterously, that as their representative he was in a sense an outpost of the American way of life. One day, perhaps, he would go on a visitor’s visa to America; and, perhaps one day, before he was old, he would get an immigration quota number. Meanwhile he was in touch. For Pashik, who had learned not to expect too much of life, that was a singular blessing and he enjoyed it. After a while he could almost forget that the Brotherhood had existed.

The reminder that it had indeed existed and the news that in an attenuated way it still did exist came as a blow. The messenger was Pazar. He told of cautious overtures being made, of small, tentative meetings, of wary soundings, and of half-formed plans. It was as if the Brotherhood had been decimated by a plague and as if the survivors had now begun to raise their heads and look about them, uncertain whether or not the infection still persisted. Gradually, in an atmosphere of intense suspicion and extravagant fears, contacts were being re-established. The security precautions were formidable. All surviving members were invited to reapply for membership and submit to the most searching investigation. Refusal to reapply when asked was to be deemed evidence of guilt. There had been no refusals so far, Pazar told Pashik grimly. The Brothers awaited him.

Pashik nodded and went to see his principal shareholder, Madame Deltchev. This was just about the election time and Madame Deltchev advised Pashik to reapply. Apart from the fact that it would be dangerous for him not to do so — Pashik did not think that this alone would have weighed heavily with Madame Deltchev — she felt that it would be advisable to be informed of the new Brotherhood’s activities. She had always had in mind the possibility of the People’s Party’s manipulating the Brotherhood for its own ends. This resurgence might not be merely what it appeared.

So began again a double life for Pashik. He was reinitiated into the Brotherhood and sat in judgment on the applications of others. The purges had proved fatal for nearly all the senior members and soon he found himself being admitted into the higher councils of the organization. Some two months before the arrest of Yordan Deltchev he heard of the membership of Philip and of the plot against Vukashin.

For once Madame Deltchev was at a loss. She had already planned the football-match incident and was manoeuvring as best she could to bring about an Agrarian-Socialist coup before the People’s Party was quite secure. Her son’s activities imperilled everything. Whether he succeeded or failed, it made no difference. As far as the people were concerned, Philip Deltchev was an extension of Papa Deltchev. The murder of Vukashin by Brother Philip would serve to unite the People’s Party as never before and shatter the Agrarian Socialists irretrievably. She could not betray the boy, for to do so would bring the same evil consequences. It was useless, she knew, to attempt to persuade him, for he was too deeply committed. She could not even discuss it with him lest he should identify Pashik as her informant. Not that she would have minded sacrificing Pashik; it was simply that she saw no point in sacrificing him to no purpose. All she could do was to instruct Pashik to work within the Brotherhood to keep in touch with Philip and perhaps undermine his belief in the project. It was a feeble plan, but for the moment she could think of nothing better. Then events began in the most curious way to play into her hands.

In the days before the purges Pazar had been a comparatively unimportant member of the Brotherhood whose weaknesses had been clearly perceived and carefully reckoned with. He would certainly not have been allowed so much as to know about a plan as important as that he now administered. That he should tell someone of it was inevitable. That it should be the petty crook Rila whom he told was very nearly lucky. If Rila had not happened at that time to get into the hands of the police, things might have turned out very differently.

The casualties in the assassination group put the Brotherhood in a panic. The survivors had raised their heads only to find that the plague was still with them. It was another betrayal, another purge. Within a few hours the great majority of the readmitted Brothers were dispersed and in hiding. The rest — those who had no means of hiding — sat in their rooms rehearsing denials. Only Pashik was in a position to know that the plague had not returned and that there must be a more banal explanation of this disaster. He made his report to Madame Deltchev and waited.

A week later, things began to move. One night Philip Deltchev came to see him. He brought news. He and Pazar had escaped and were for the moment safe. Meanwhile the Brotherhood had reorganized. Pazar had been superseded as administrator — his nerves were bad — and a new man had taken over. His name was Aleko and he was a dynamo of a man with great determination and drive. But others were needed. Several Brothers had refused, cravenly. Would he, Pashik, come in with them? The plan would now go on to success, in which all would share.

Pashik accepted and reported to Madame Deltchev. She agreed with him that the whole affair felt peculiar. Their suspicions were aroused in the first place because of the failure of the police to arrest Pazar and Philip. Pashik knew that there was documentary evidence against them and that in such a dangerous case — a Brotherhood plot against Vukashin — the price of concealment was beyond the fugitives’ capacity to pay. And there was Philip’s name. Why was the People’s Party not publicizing the affair? By way of reply to this question Madame Deltchev produced her theory that the People’s Party would ultimately take over the Brotherhood. Pashik listened respectfully. But he had an unworthy thought: that Madame Deltchev’s preoccupation with the idea was dictated by her annoyance at having failed to take over the Brotherhood herself. She was, to Pashik’s way of thinking, a remarkable woman, but inclined to underrate the cleverness of others.

A day or two later he was summoned to meet Aleko. The meeting took place in the apartment I had been in, and it was soon evident to Pashik that Aleko was not what he pretended to be. For one thing, he noticed — as I had noticed — that the furnishings had been assembled from second-hand stores and arranged hurriedly in an unlikely way. But there might have been reasonable explanations for that. What decided him was Aleko’s way of talking. Pashik had met many members of the Brotherhood and he had learned to recognize the habits of thought and speech that were the private currency of their relationships. For instance, the Brethren scarcely ever talked of killing anybody without at some point using the phrase ‘removing an obstacle’. Aleko used the word ‘eliminate’. It was a small difference, but it was one of many. And there was a mannerism he had that was peculiar. When he spoke of firing a gun he would point with his forefinger at the back of his head and make a clicking noise with his tongue. For the Brethren a gun was a serious matter; you did not click facetiously with your tongue to convey its moment of power. The whole gesture reminded Pashik of something he knew he would remember later. By the end of that meeting he was sure that Aleko was not a bona-fide member of the Brotherhood. Yet he was dispensing money and making sound plans to assassinate Vukashin. In the early hours of the morning Pashik came to the conclusion that Madame Deltchev had been very nearly right. Someone had employed Aleko; someone who could hamstring police action and also pay well; someone in the People’s Party. But not necessarily the People’s Party as a whole. A faction within the party, then? It was probable. Somebody was going to get killed and somebody else was paying for the event. Pashik decided to learn more before deciding upon the identity of the principal. Then came the bomb-throwing attempt on Deltchev’s life which was organized, Pashik thought, by Vukashin himself and without Brankovitch’s knowledge or approval. The press releases which came from the Propaganda Ministry bore marks of haste, improvisation, and uncertainty of line which suggested that Brankovitch had been caught unprepared. Moreover, Aleko was disconcerted and talked vaguely about ‘bungling’. The term could have referred to the failure of the attempt, but Pashik’s impression was that it was more in the nature of a comment on a situation that permitted the attempt to take place at all. That was interesting because if the impression was correct, it meant that Brankovitch and Aleko had one thing at least in common — ignorance of Vukashin’s intentions. And that in turn might mean that they had other things in common too.

The arrest of Deltchev created a new problem for Pashik. Hitherto he had had no difficulty in arranging for private meetings with Madame Deltchev. Now that she was under house arrest, it was impossible for him to see her personally. He knew that all visitors would be reported and he could not afford to have his name on the list. His whole position was, indeed, highly equivocal. He was certainly known to Aleko’s employers as a member of the Brotherhood. The faintest breath of suspicion as to his motives would result in his being informed upon and promptly hanged. He had Philip Deltchev on his hands and an obligation to extricate the young man if he could. He did not know exactly what was afoot. He was without allies. All he could do for the present was to remain as inconspicuous as possible, cultivate Philip Deltchev, and check up on Aleko. But for a while he did not make much progress with either intention. Philip Deltchev did not like him. The best he had been able to do about Aleko was to remember what the gun-pointing gesture had reminded him of. The ‘K. Fischer’ note which I had found was the result. It was Pazar who finally supplied the essential information.

When Aleko had taken over the conspiracy, Pazar had been in a pitiable state of exhaustion and terror. The arrest of Rila had cut off his drug supplies. He was without money or lodging and was hunted by the police. Philip, who then had (in the name Valmo) the room in the Patriarch Dimo, had taken him in, and for nearly a week the two had remained there, hungry, because they feared to go out to buy food, and in constant fear of discovery. The night Aleko arrived on the scene, Pazar had collapsed and was in a state almost of coma. It took him several days of ready access to the supplies of heroin, which Aleko had miraculously procured, to bring him back to anything like normality; and when he did come back, it was to find that he had been superseded.

Pazar was not unintelligent. Quite soon he perceived what Pashik already knew — that Aleko was not of the Brotherhood — but, unlike Pashik, he drew a wrong conclusion. His drug-twisted mind linked his discovery with his own fall from power and also with the memory of the traitor who had never been unmasked. All the paranoid projections of his mind focussed suddenly upon a single object — Aleko. From that moment he began to plot against Aleko and to spy on him. Philip had moved into Aleko’s apartment, and Pazar had the Patriarch Dimo room to himself. It was easy, therefore, for him to keep track of Aleko’s movements outside the apartment. One night he followed Aleko to a house in the suburbs. It was a big house and there was a car outside of the kind that usually has a chauffeur. Aleko was there an hour. When he came out Pazar did not follow him, but stayed to watch the house and the car. Ten minutes after Aleko had gone, a man came out, got into the car, and drove off. As he passed by, Pazar recognized him. It was Brankovitch. Two days later, seething with malice and excitement, he told Pashik of his discovery.

It took Pashik ten seconds to make up his mind what he had to do. The first thing was to control Pazar and urge discretion. The second thing was to make him tell the story to Philip Deltchev in Pashik’s presence so that while the boy would at last realize what was really happening, his desire for revenge could be usefully canalized. Obviously, Brankovitch’s idea was to destroy his rival within the Party and to put the guilt for the crime on the Deltchev family. In other words, he could manipulate the original conspiracy so as to convict the father and use the second conspiracy, his own, to dispose of Vukashin and have in his hands the perfect scapegoat, Philip. Pashik’s idea was to remove the scapegoat when it was too late to change the assassination plan and let the whole affair recoil on Brankovitch. What was more, Pashik knew just how the idea could be put into practice. But everything depended on Philip.

It was a ticklish business. When Philip’s first neurotic outbursts were spent he lapsed into a hopeless depression, which persisted for some days and which was noticed by Aleko. Fortunately, Pashik had managed to make his proposals understood, and Philip Deltchev had presence of mind enough to play the part he had been given. It was not too difficult. All he had to do was to continue to appear fanatically devoted to the task of killing Vukashin; and fanatics do not have to make much sense. The problem was Pazar. His hatred of Aleko soon wore so thin a disguise that an outburst of some sort was inevitable. All Pashik could do was to remind him constantly of the need for absolute secrecy, and hope that when the explosion came, Pazar the drug addict would be more in evidence than Pazar the conspirator. And so it turned out. The occasion was one of the bi-weekly meetings at which Aleko insisted on going over the entire plan of campaign afresh and rejustifying each part of it. The plan itself was simple enough, and clearly the object of the meetings was to keep the conspirators in hand; but that night Pazar chose to put a different interpretation on the meeting. Quite suddenly and fantastically he accused Aleko of having police hidden in an adjoining room to listen to the conversation. Without a word Aleko rose and showed the next room to be empty. Pazar replied that there were microphones hidden and began to tear up the carpet to prove it. Philip Deltchev sat as if he had not heard. Pashik sat sweating for what was to come. Aleko watched with a smile, but listened attentively to Pazar’s babbling. There was just enough sense in it for him to guess what Pazar had discovered. When, in the end, Pazar collapsed, sobbing, Aleko gave him a big injection of heroin. When Pazar was quiet, Aleko looked at the others and shook his head. ‘We cannot rely upon him,’ he said. ‘He will compromise us all.’

The other two nodded quickly. They were in heart-felt agreement.

Aleko smiled. ‘Leave everything to me,’ he said.

At the next meeting Pazar did not appear and Aleko announced briefly that he had committed suicide in his room, that the body would be left for the police to find, and that, as his services had never really been necessary, no Brother would be sought to replace him.

It was on the day after that meeting that I arrived.

I presented a serious problem to the harassed Pashik. To have someone in and about his office, poking and prying, hampering his movements, possibly endangering his neutral relations with the Propaganda Ministry — that was bad enough. To have someone directly concerned with him in contact with Petlarov was alarming, for who knew what that might not suggest to Brankovitch? He had already recognized and been recognized by Sibley, whom he remembered as one of the intelligence officers who could know his story.

Sibley knew me. Another potential danger. Especially as I was inquisitive. My interview with Madame Deltchev threw him into a panic. The night he learned of it, he faced Aleko with his gun in his pocket instead of in his briefcase. But nothing unusual happened at that meeting. It was after it that Aleko took him aside, gave him a wad of papers, and asked him to put them in Pazar’s room to ‘mislead’ the police who found them. Pashik guessed that Brankovitch wished to take the opportunity afforded by Pazar’s death of planting further incriminating evidence against Deltchev. When he got to Pazar’s room, he found me there.

His dilemma was awful. I could be explained in several ways. I was telling him the truth or I was lying. But even if I was telling the truth I might still be an unwitting agent of Brankovitch’s and this might be a trap to catch him out. On the other hand, I was doing work for one of the American clients and was therefore under the protection of the Pan-Eurasian Press Service. If this was a trap, then the only safe thing to do was to take me to Aleko for questioning. If it was not a trap, however, he might be taking the representative of an American client to his death.

‘What made you decide to take me?’ I asked.

Pashik blinked at me sheepishly. ‘I did not quite decide, Mr Foster,’ he said, ‘I compromised. I left part of the decision to you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘While I hid the papers Aleko had given me in the room, you were walking to my car at the end of the street. I thought you might take the opportunity to escape. If you did not-’ He shrugged.

‘Do you know why I didn’t run?’

‘Because you were not alarmed?’

‘No. Because I wanted to ask you questions.’

He sighed. ‘You have been very lucky, Mr Foster,’ he said. ‘It was difficult to persuade Aleko that you were harmless, and very embarrassing when he found that you were not. I certainly did not expect to find you alive this morning. And when you tell me of Katerina’s foolishness I marvel.’

‘I suppose she got back all right.’

‘If she had not done so you would not be here. The check on the Deltchev house is carried out at eight every morning.’

‘Does Madame Deltchev know what’s happened?’

‘I have been able to send her brief messages.’

‘By that old friend of the family who drops in for tea?’

‘You are too well informed, Mr Foster.’

I finished my fourth cup of coffee. ‘When you begin to make flattering remarks, I am suspicious,’ I said. ‘You really mean that I still don’t know at all what’s going on.’

His brown eyes contemplated me through his rimless glasses. He was smelling strongly that morning. The seersucker suit was horribly dirty. He shrugged. ‘As for instance, Mr Foster?’

‘As for instance — why are you here at all at this moment? Why aren’t you in Athens with Philip?’

We were in my hotel room. He opened his briefcase, took out a battered meat sandwich, and began eating it. He had his mouth full before he answered. ‘You forget, Mr Foster, that there is to be an assassination here today.’

‘I hadn’t forgotten it. What I was wondering was why you’ve been so cagey about it. What exactly is going to happen? What’s the plan? When did Philip come into it? What happens now he isn’t here?’

‘They do not know he is not here. He did not leave until after the final meeting last night.’

‘But what’s going to happen?’

‘I will tell you. Pazar’s original plan was simple and stupid. The celebration march takes place in the St Mihail Square. The parade marches in along the boulevard and out along the Prospect. The saluting base is the stone platform halfway down the great steps that lead up to the portico in front of the Ministry of the Interior. It was the main state entrance to the old palace. From the bronze statues at the bottom up to the platform there are forty steps. On these occasions the steps are flanked with troops, forty each side. They are a bodyguard and they are armed with machine pistols. It was Pazar’s idea to kidnap four of these men and replace them with his men. They would shoot Vukashin as he stood on the platform and hope to escape in the confusion, because it would seem to be the real troops who had fired. This, I may tell you, was the plan that the prosecutor at the trial did not wish to explain.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because the absurdity of it would make people laugh. Does it not make you laugh, Mr Foster?’

‘It might have worked.’

He shook his head mournfully. ‘I can see, Mr Foster, that you would not be a good conspirator. One has only to think for a moment of the kidnapping-’

‘What were all these messages about?’

‘The uniforms, naturally. They could not buy them. Instead they stole them from the soldiers’ brothels. It was all very childish. When Aleko took over he made a new plan. Uniforms were wanted, but those of ordinary line troops, not those of the bodyguard. Three men only would be needed. It was a good plan. You know, when there is a parade great care is taken to guard against assassins. The occupants of rooms overlooking the square are carefully checked by the police, and the flat roofs of the buildings round it are guarded by troops from outside the city. The first part of the plan was to conceal a machine gun and ammunition on one of the flat roofs. Then just before the parade men in uniform would go up to the roof and tell the troops already there that the guards were being doubled as trouble was expected. As the real troops were from outside, these would not expect to recognize men who said they were from a city battalion. The false men would have bottles of brandy and things to eat in their haversacks. After a while they would offer to share it. The brandy would be heavily dosed with morphine. The soldiers would go to sleep; the gun would be produced and set up and trained on the platform. All would be in readiness for the appearance of Vukashin. And when the thing was done, escape would be possible. It would be difficult in the surprise and confusion to say exactly where the shots had come from. The troops on nearby roofs might think they were from a window below. But there would be doubt. And while there was doubt, there would be time for us to descend to the street and mingle with the crowd. Who is going to suspect three soldiers? Until the real ones wake up, hours later, nobody will know how it was done, and by then it will be too late.’

‘Philip Deltchev will have escaped?’

‘Exactly, Mr Foster. That was why the plan seemed so good at first to Philip and Pazar and so strange to me. Until I knew that Brankovitch was deeply involved and saw that it would be quite easy for him to arrange for the police to be warned that, say, thieves disguised as soldiers would be raiding such-and-such a building during the parade and that a patrol waiting at the exits could catch them red-handed.’

‘So as there will be no Philip, there will be no assassination. Is that it?’

‘No, Mr Foster, that is not it. There were to be three on the gun — Philip, myself, and one of Aleko’s men.’

‘One of those who tried to kill me?’

‘That is so. But there is another man and Aleko himself. What, I asked myself, would they be doing while Vukashin was being assassinated?’

‘Leaving the country, I should think.’

‘Yes, I thought that. But three days ago there was a serious complication. Aleko told us that there would be a second gun on another roof and that he and the other man would man it. Philip would have the honour of firing first, but Aleko would be there in case of an emergency. What would that suggest to you, Mr Foster?’

‘That he was suspicious? That he didn’t trust Philip?’

‘Yes, I considered those possibilities. But then another thought occurred to me, a very interesting idea. Luckily I was able to check it. The following night the guns were hidden on the roofs we had selected-’

‘Which are they?’

He smiled. ‘That I think I will not tell you, Mr Foster. You will discover.’

There was something very disturbing about that smile. I suddenly became uneasy.

‘Go on,’ I said.

‘The guns were wrapped in sacking and hung by wires inside the brick chimneys. Very early in the morning I returned by myself and examined them.’ He paused, smiling again.

‘And-?’

‘The gun on Philip’s roof had no firing pin. It had been taken out.’

I looked blank. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t see-’

‘Don’t you, Mr Foster?’ His eyes gleaming through the spectacles were no longer sad. ‘Power is a great thing, you know. To be able to move and control great affairs — not the characters and situations on a stage, Mr Foster, but the real — that is the greatest of all pleasures. You feel it in the stomach.’ He patted his own. ‘Here. I feel it now.’

‘Yes?’ I wondered suddenly if he were mad.

‘Consider.’ He stood up and strode over to the window. ‘A man in Aleko’s profession is always in a difficult position. He must always be sure that his master has the power to protect him. He must always be sure that the master wishes to protect him. And he must consider the future. It is dangerous for him to serve one powerful person at the expense of another who may later do him harm. Aleko is clever. He would not have survived if he had not been. He is used to weighing advantages. And so I ask myself questions. Why are there two guns? Why is there no firing pin in a gun that Aleko expects to pour bullets into Vukashin? I answer, because it is Vukashin who is Aleko’s best master and has been so perhaps from the first. What ultimate chance has Brankovitch in a struggle for power over Vukashin’s dead body? None! He would go down in the end. His own intelligence would trip him. The sort of brutal cunning that lets him dig his own grave will always win. That is Vukashin’s strength and Aleko knows it. Philip would have pressed the trigger of a gun aimed at Vukashin and nothing would have happened. Aleko would have pressed the trigger of the second gun, aimed at Brankovitch, and the gun would have fired. Philip and I and Aleko’s man would have been arrested and hanged. The gun that would be used in evidence would be the one Aleko left on the other roof. The two murderous Deltchevs would hang together. The murderous Agrarian Socialists would be punished. Vukashin would be secure both from the opposition and from the plots and ambitions of Brankovitch. Aleko, who loves skiing, would be waiting, rich and happy, for the snow at St Moritz. A pretty picture, Mr Foster!’

‘Yes.’ There seemed nothing else to say.

‘But a picture that will not be seen.’

‘Because Philip is in Athens.’

He held up a finger. ‘And because I am here.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘You will see now why I wish you to understand. The one obstacle is Aleko’s man — one of those who tried to kill you — the one who was to have been with Philip and me. In one hour’s time he will go to a rendezvous to meet us. If we do not arrive he will go to Aleko to warn him, and when Aleko knows that Philip is not there he will not fire. Brankovitch’s life will be saved.’

‘I see.’

‘But if I stop this man, Aleko will fire. Brankovitch will die, and because there is no Philip to arrest, Vukashin will have to take Aleko. And when Philip has told his story to you and it is ringing round the world, Vukashin’s day will begin to end. That is, if I stop this man.’

I said nothing.

For a moment he continued to stare out of the window; then he turned to face me, his self-assurance gone, his face working grotesquely. ‘Do I stop him, Mr Foster?’ he demanded. ‘You tell me!’

I stared at him, and he read my thoughts.

He shook his head. ‘No, Mr Foster, it is not in your hands. There is nobody here for you to tell this story to. That is if you yourself wish to live. Warn Brankovitch, and you will be rewarded by him with a bullet. Warn Vukashin and it will be the same. You know too much for either’s safety.’

‘There’s our legation. They could warn Brankovitch.’

‘Then you would be killing me instead. I do not think you will choose that alternative. You have no moral dilemma, Mr Foster. It is my own I put to you.’

I was silent.

He sat down and gazed suddenly into space for a moment. ‘Do you know America well?’ he asked suddenly.

‘Not very well.’

‘No,’ he said slowly, ‘neither do I.’

He was silent again. I did not speak. I knew, as if he were thinking aloud, that he was submitting his problem to the judgment of Passaic, New Jersey, Oakland, California, and Hagerstown, Maryland. It was perhaps as good a way of resolving it as any other.

When at last he stood up he was as calm and businesslike as the day we had met. He took an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to me.

‘Your ticket for the press box at the anniversary parade, Mr Foster. I should have given it to you before. Even after what has happened, I do not see that there can be any objection to your using it. Your train, I would remind you, is at five. Have you money?’

‘Yes, thanks.’

He held out his hand. ‘I will try to get to the station to look after you, but there will be the cables and so on to attend to. You will forgive me if I cannot make it?’

I shook hands with him. ‘Yes, of course. Thank you very much for all your help.’

He put up a protesting hand. ‘A pleasure, Mr Foster.’

He turned away briskly, picked up his briefcase, and walked to the door. Then he paused.

‘You’re welcome,’ he added, and went.