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Gavin Lyall

Spy’s Honour

THE SALONIKA ROAD

1

The journalist put down a pad of coarse writing paper on the cafe table, tilted and shook the chair to make sure there were no bits of broken glass on it, then sat down. A waiter put a cup of thick sweet coffee and a glass of water in front of him and the journalist nodded, but neither of them spoke.

He sipped the coffee, took out a pencil and wrote: Salonika, November 9. Then, feeling pessimistic about when the despatch would reach London, completed the date: 1912. After that, he stared blankly out at the cold morning, past the big Greek flag that hung in limp folds over the door. He knew just how it felt. He sighed and began to write quickly.

Today, after 470 years of Turkish domination, the Greek Army once more trod the streets of Salonika. It has been a great day for the Hellenes, their goal is reached, their dreams realised. And no ancient army returning victorious to its native Athens ever received a more tumultuous welcome than …

He realised someone was standing beside him and looked up, not moving his head too fast. He wasn’t surprised to see a uniformed officer – the city had more of them than beggars at the moment – but hadn’t expected the uniform to be of a Major in the Coldstream Guards.

“You are English, aren’t you?” the Major said. “Do you know where I can get hold of a horse?”

By the mane, the journalist thought, if there aren’t any reins. But he said: “Not so easy, in a country at war. But if you’ve got money, anything’s possible. ”

“Just for a couple of hours or so.

“There’s a stables in the street behind this place, but don’t blame me if it turns out the Turks have pinched them all to escape on. But if you want to get out to the Greek HQ down the road,” he nodded to the east, “you could get a lift on a supply cart. ”

The Major was wearing highly polished riding boots and an expression that said he hadn’t put them on to go jaunting in oxcarts. He looked around the cafe as if hoping there was a saddled horse half-hidden in some corner, but only saw an old man sweeping fiercely at the chips of glass and crockery welded to the floor by sticky patches of wine.

“It looks as if you had a bit of a party last night. ”

“It happens every four hundred and seventy years, I believe. ”

Unsmiling, the Major went on: “I suppose you didn’t happen to run across a chap, a British officer in the Greek gunners?”

The journalist perked up. “No, but I’d like to. What’s his name?”

But the Major just nodded and said: “Well, thanks awfully. I think I’ll try that stables. ”

Left to himself again, the journalist finished his coffee, beckoned for more, and wrote:

I spent the evening observing exultant human nature from a point of vantage in the principal cafe, where a huge Greek flag had replaced the Turkish red and white. The appearance of officers in uniform was the signal for the crowd to rise and give vent to more cries of ‘Long live’.

Then he crossed out from ‘cries’ and wrote simply: ‘more Zetos’. If any reader of The Times didn’t understand Greek, he wouldn’t dare to show it by complaining.