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A few blocks on they found what he had been looking for. The Hotel Grande Bretagne was a huge neo-classical building built a little like a wedding-cake, with a colonnade of Romanesque arches running the length of the front. Lamb told the men to wait and, jumping down, climbed the steps to the massive entrance doors. Inside the place was in uproar. The air was filled with the stench of burning papers. The few civil servants still remaining ran from room to room. He tried to stop one of them but was brushed aside. Looking around he saw a sign: the words ‘Billiard Room’ had been crossed out and ‘Information Office’ written in. Lamb walked towards it and found himself at the rear of the old hotel. There was a large mirror on one wall, and catching sight of himself he was momentarily horrified at his appearance. His brown, almost black hair, which in peacetime and on leave had been cut in a neat, military style by Truefit and Hill, had grown ragged in the month since the regimental barber had last had a go at it. The stubble to which he had grown accustomed, shaving just once every four days to save water, had grown almost beard-like, and the face that it hid was sallow and despite the tan somehow pale. But it was his eyes which most shocked Lamb. They seemed sunk into their sockets, as if all the misery he had seen in the past few weeks was hidden in their depths. He looked away and carried on. At the end of the corridor was a green-painted door.
He knocked and, not waiting for a reply, went in. A bespectacled man in his late forties, in a black suit, aided by another, much younger, was shoving pile after pile of papers on to the fire, which was burning gloriously. He turned and saw Lamb, his face ruddy from the fire glow, his grey hair tousled to the point of absurdity.
‘Army? You’re not needed here. Your chaps have cleared out. I should find your own place. Wherever that is now.’
‘Sorry, sir. I was just trying to find out about transport and someone told me …’
‘Yes, that’s the trouble, you see, Captain. Everyone knows better than the other person. Everybody tells someone something but nobody has the right answer.’ He paused for a moment, distracted from the burning. ‘This is the British Legation, Captain, not the Quartermaster’s stores. We do not deal in matters of military transport. I have quite enough to do packing the place up before the Germans get here. Now please leave us alone and find your own people.’
Lamb nodded and left, closing the door on the scene as the man threw more papers on to the cheerfully blazing pyre.
Outside Lamb found the men waiting, eager-faced. ‘Sorry, no joy there I’m afraid. The top brass have cleared out and the place is full of pen-pushers from the consulate. And bloody rude ones at that. We’ll just have to make our own way.’
He was about to get back into the truck when he turned, distracted by the noise of a commotion across the square. A group of civilians were arguing. There was nothing so remarkable about that. The thing was that this group of people was so obviously English.
There were three men and a woman. One of the men was tall and well-built, another short, thin and bespectaled, the last squat and slightly overweight. They wore a variety of clothing – tropical suits, blazers and even an Argyle-patterned jersey. The fat man was dressed in an astrakhan coat and sweating profusely. The woman was dark-haired and wore a fur coat and a silk scarf. They stood around a pile of small but expensive-looking suitcases, a single cabin trunk and, bizarrely, a portable gramophone. A little moustachioed Greek in a shabby black suit, white shirt and black tie – presumably someone’s servant – hopped and muttered around them as if he intended to physically propel them out of the town and out of his responsibility.
Lamb stared at them. The British civilian population had reportedly been evacuated several days before and he was just puzzling as to what on earth they were still doing here when the woman saw him and fixed his gaze with her own. She had dark eyes and a shock of auburn hair, which fell in the style of a Hollywood star about her shoulders, spilling over her scarf and on to the collar of her coat. Lamb was transfixed by her eyes, like a rabbit in a spotlight, and before he knew it, as some predator might when focusing on its quarry, she was running across the square towards him.
‘Sorry, I’m so sorry. Can you help? We’re English. Well, most of us are. All apart from poor Mr Papandreou, who lost his wife in an air raid.’ She put out her hand and for a second Lamb wasn’t sure whether she expected him to kiss it or shake it. He chose the latter. ‘Sorry. Miranda Hartley.’
She spoke with a clipped voice that betrayed an upbringing in the home counties and for a moment Lamb was transported back in time to another world, the world of his ex-wife and her friends. Lamb was frozen, lost for words, but only for a second. ‘Yes. I can see that. I’m not sure …’
‘Where have you come from? Have you any news?’ She smiled. ‘I suppose you’re sworn to secrecy. Have you been … at the front?’
He looked at her and tried to work out what she might be doing here. Was she the wife of a diplomat? An aristocrat who had missed the boat? He muttered, ‘No, no news I’m afraid. No good news, at least. We’re just looking for a way out.’
She smiled. ‘So are we. We must get away before the Germans get here. My husband is very important. He’s a writer. A novelist. You’ve probably heard of him. Julian Hartley. Over there, with the glasses.’ She waited for the acknowledgement, the recognition, the nod of the head, but none came.
Lamb saw her disappointment. ‘Yes, of course. Julian Hartley. Yes, you must get away.’
‘We were here on a lecture tour, you see. Julian’s publisher’s idea. Good for his public image, and Julian took Classics at Magdalene. In fact he knows Greece quite well. Actually he desperately wanted to come back to find material for his next book. It’s set here, you see. Lovely story. We were guests with the university. That’s how we met Mr Papandreous. Well, of course, I just had to come. And then all this happened. But you know you have to admit it. The Greeks are pretty indolent, aren’t they. Don’t you think that Rome is by far the nobler civilisation? Il Duce wants to return them to that time.’
‘You admire Mussolini?’
She looked shocked. ‘Don’t you? You know he’s really done wonders for that country.’
‘But not too much for its army.’
‘I wouldn’t know about that. I’m not a soldier. Not like you. So you will help us, Captain?’
‘Well, I don’t really see how I can. You see I have orders. You know how it is.’
A man detached himself from the group and approached them, not her husband, the apparently famous writer, but a heavy-set man in his early thirties, dressed in white flannels and a blazer. A man, thought Lamb, dressed more for a riverside regatta than a war zone. He beamed at Lamb and spoke in a deep, self-consciously masculine voice, oozing confidence.
‘Comberwell. Freddie Comberwell. Have we met?’
Lamb did not make a habit of taking an instant dislike to people, but this man was an exception. Smiling, he shook his head. ‘No. I really don’t think so. Peter Lamb, North Kents.’
‘The Jackals. Golly. We are in safe hands. Seem to have got ourselves into a bit of a pickle. I was here on business, of course. I’m in oil. Cod liver oil. The Greeks can’t get enough of it. Worth a fortune. All those babies, you see. We actually had a factory here in Athens. Direct hit, wouldn’t you know it. It’s going to cost the company thousands. I’ve got to get home. Make my report. What a bloody shambles.’
This was becoming ridiculous, thought Lamb. The last thing he wanted was to find himself responsible for a bunch of civilians. Lamb went on, ‘Now look, I’m sorry but I have to reach my regiment in Egypt. I really don’t think …’
Comberwell was not to be dissuaded. ‘The thing is, old man, we’re really a bit stuck. Thought perhaps you might help.’
‘I’d love to, but as I was saying to Mrs Hartley I have orders. There’s nothing I can do. The British consul should be able to …’
Comberwell became agitated. ‘The consul’s gone. Didn’t you hear? Took a sea-plane to Alex yesterday. That’s why we’re stuck, old man.’
‘Isn’t there anyone else at the Legation?’
‘No, no one. We’ve been there. Just an odious little man called Dobson. Burning papers. Turned us away.’
Lamb nodded. ‘Yes, I met him too.’
‘Well, how do you suggest we are going to get out of here?’
Lamb shrugged. ‘I should get down to Piraeus, if I were you. The harbour. Get aboard whatever you can. There’s sure to be a boat.’
‘But what I mean is, how on earth are we going to get there?’
Lamb bit his lip and counted to ten. As he did so a stick of bombs fell less than half a mile inland in a series of explosions. Mrs Hartley jumped and gave a little shriek.
Lamb looked at Comberwell in desperation. ‘Oh, use your initiative, man, for God’s sake.’
He turned away in momentary disgust and despair. Very soon, he thought, this is the sort of man who if he manages to ever get back home is going to be conscripted into the army. And then God help us all. For the moment, however, the man is a helpless fool. If we leave him he will die, and who knows what will happen to the rest of them, including the woman.
The harbour quay and the beach below were filled now with soldiers, RAF ground crew by the dozen and all manner of civilians, all trying to find a ship or any other means of getting away from the Germans.
A New Zealand sergeant saw Lamb and spotted his pips. ‘You in charge, sir?’
‘No. Not really, Sarnt. Just trying to get my men away.’
‘Well, you’d better look sharp about it, sir. They’re only up the road. At Acharnes, someone said. The Jerries, that is. We’ve left the 4th Hussars as a rearguard and then they’ll just have to fend for themselves. Poor bloody cavalry. It’s another bloody balls-up.’
Lamb nodded. ‘Yes, Sarn’t. I think you may be right. Have you got a plan?’
‘We found some taxis parked up in the main square. A whole bloody fleet of them. I’d help you if we could, but they’re full already. I’ve got about 100 men to get away myself. You’re welcome to try your luck with our column, though, sir, if you’ve got your own transport. The harbour at Piraeus is fucked, though. Blown to shit. We’re off east to see if we can’t find a ship at Rafina. You might do the same, mate.’
Lamb bristled. ‘Thank you, Sarnt. I’ll take your advice. Good luck.’
‘Good luck, sir.’
On the corner of University Street a section of New Zealand infantrymen were setting up a machine-gun post, sandbagging it with sacks taken from the wall of a nearby café. Outside the same café several Greeks sat and watched the men at work, quietly drinking their coffee, saying nothing.
He turned to the men and then glimpsed the English beyond. They had stopped arguing now but were still talking. It was just too bad. He was an officer and, no matter what his personal feelings might be towards these misfits, his duty was to get his men to safety as soon as he could and back into action. As he was looking at the group a British major walked up to them, heading for the Hartleys. He was intercepted by Comberwell, who began to speak to him and pointed towards Lamb. The officer nodded and then spoke with Mrs Hartley. Then he looked across to Lamb and walked over.
‘Captain Lamb? Guy Whittaker, RHA. Look, I’ve a bit of a favour to ask you. Those people over there.’ He pointed to the British party.
‘Sir?’
‘You know who they are?’
‘Sir.’
‘Well, we really have to get them away. I know it may seem strange but Hartley’s quite a senior chap, actually. Friend of the GOC. At least their wives are buddies. The other chap I’m not concerned about, but he seems to have attached himself to them. Can you manage it?’
‘Is that an order, sir?’
The man looked at him, ‘Yes, you’d better take it as one. Don’t want to rattle the GOC, do we?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Fine, that’s settled then. Good luck.’
He walked back to the civilians and as he spoke to Miranda Hartley Comberwell turned to give Lamb a smile. Lamb strolled across to him, biting his lip.
‘Change of plan. I’ve been given orders to get you away. But I’m afraid you’ll have to look sharpish if you’re going to come with us.’
Comberwell smiled at him. ‘I say, that’s awfully decent of you. Righto. I’ll just find my kit.’
Lamb bristled. He seemed almost a caricature of an Englishman.
Hartley, the famous writer whose work he had never read, turned to Lamb. ‘It is frightfully decent of you. Let me buy you a drink. There’s a bar across the road. They’re bound to have some champagne. The good stuff.’
‘With respect, Mr Hartley, I don’t think this is quite the time. But that is very kind. Let’s postpone it till we’re all safe in Alex, shall we?’
‘Quite. Yes, of course, quite right. Should never have suggested it. Bad idea. Must get on and get your men away. Can’t keep the Jackals waiting. You know when I join up, which won’t be before long, I’m sure, I’ve half a mind to put in for a commission with your mob. Will you put in a word for me?’
Lamb looked at him. Could the man really be serious? Lamb wondered what the recruiting officer would say, and the adjutant for that matter. And then he realised that it was true, that before long men like Hartley, along with the bumptious idiot Comberwell, might be the only officers they had. ‘Yes, of course I will. Good show. I’m sure there’ll be no problem.’
Hartley turned to his wife. ‘Miranda, the captain here says he can get me a commission in the Jackals. Isn’t that splendid?’
Lamb muttered. ‘I didn’t actually say that I could do that. I will put a word in, of course.’
‘That would be so kind, Captain. I really don’t want Julian to fight, but if he must then … Well, he’s always wanted to be a soldier. Like Dr Johnson.’
They smiled at each other and Lamb began to wonder whether he might not have been rash in suggesting he might help them to get away. There was a respectful cough behind him and Lamb turned to see a corporal. Lamb returned the salute and, looking for his buttons, saw that he belonged to the Grenadier Guards, which was strange, as, to the best of his knowledge, there were no Guards units in Greece.
‘Captain Lamb, sir?’
‘Corporal.’
‘I’ve been sent to fetch you, sir. A matter of urgency. Would you come with me, sir?’
‘Where to, Corporal? On whose orders?’
‘My commanding officer, sir. It’s not far.’
Lamb called across to Charles Eadie. ‘Lieutenant, take command. I shan’t be long.’
He followed the corporal across the street and down an alleyway. ‘I hope this is not going to take long, Corporal. You do know that Jerry’s about to pay us a visit.’
‘Not long, sir, no.’
They kept walking at a brisk pace and eventually Lamb found himself in a back street that might have come from any eastern town. It reminded him of his one never-to-be-repeated visit to the Birkah in Cairo, with washing strung across the road and scantily clad women hanging out of the windows, touting for custom.
‘Where the hell have you brought me, Corporal? If this is some sort of practical joke I’ll have you …’
‘No joke, sir. Sorry, sir.’ The corporal pushed open a door. ‘The colonel’s just in here, sir.’
Glancing at the man, Lamb entered and followed the Guardsman into a house and down a narrow passageway. It was stiflingly hot, dimly lit by one bare light bulb and smelt of incense and spices, masking an underlying stench of disinfectant. They turned to the right and then left and at last the corporal pushed open another door. ‘Here we are, sir.’
Lamb walked in, past the corporal’s arm, and saw an officer sitting at a desk before him. Another soldier, a towering Grenadier warrant officer, was standing against one wall. The man looked up and Lamb recognised him instantly.
‘Hello, Peter. Do sit down. WO Pullen, would you leave us for a moment?’
The Guardsman nodded, ‘Sir,’ and walked smartly out of the room, closing the door behind him. Lamb seated himself on a small upright chair in front of the desk and looked at the man who had summoned him to this unlikely office.
He was a colonel, and even though he was sitting down it was obvious that he was a tall man, lean and fit with it. He smiled at Lamb and Lamb wanted to return the smile, but instead he frowned. For this was the man who had seen to his quick promotion, and it had been the colonel too who had suggested to Lamb that he might join that new elite unit. Lamb knew as soon as he saw him that an encounter with Colonel ‘R’ could only mean trouble. Particularly when he smiled.
The colonel spoke. ‘How wonderful to see you, Peter. I could hardly believe it when they told me you were in Athens. What a stroke of luck. About all we’ve had so far in this damned campaign.’
‘Yes, sir. It has been rather rough.’
‘Well, it’s going to get rougher. For all of us. Now you’re probably wondering why I called you here. And you’re probably thinking that I’ve hatched another mad plan.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The colonel smiled again. ‘Well, I’m afraid you’re absolutely right. Don’t worry. It’s nothing to do with Section D, and I don’t want you to join the commandos. Those are purely voluntary. You won’t need to leave your men. In fact they’re integral to the whole scheme.’
‘Sir, are you quite certain that you’ve got the right man?’
‘Absolutely. As I said, I couldn’t believe it when I heard you were here. Last-minute miracle. I was beginning to despair.’
‘Can I ask how exactly you did hear, sir?’
‘No. Not really. Let’s just say that someone whom you know, knows who you are. That is to say they knew that you were here. And they told me, and as soon as I heard that I had you brought here. That any clearer?’
‘Not really, sir. No.’
‘Well, that’s it. The walls have ears, you know, Peter. Can’t be too careful.’
‘Evidently not.’
It was instantly apparent to him that the colonel’s spy, whoever he or she was, had to be one of the British party. Either that or one of his own men, or most unlikely of all a Kiwi or an Aussie. He called to mind the civilians and had begun to wonder which one it could be before he realised that the colonel was speaking.
‘Now come on, Peter. There’s no need to be like that. This is hardly the man I know. The hero of St Valéry.’
