need to talk to you. They want you to come in.”
Come in: a term of art, whose significance Andros appreciated as much as anyone.
Come in—report to stateside headquarters, to submit to analysis, interrogation,
or whatever form of debriefing was deemed appropriate. “You’re talking nonsense.
If Cons Op command wanted me to come in, they wouldn’t give the message to a
pampered sociopath like you. You’re a person who might work for anyone. I’d love
to know who your real employer is today, message boy.”
” ‘Message boy,’ you say.”
“That’s all you ever were.”
Andros smiled, and weblike creases formed around his eyes. “Do you remember the
story behind the original Marathon? In the fifth century b.c., the Persians
launched an invasion, landing at the coastal town of that name, Marathon. A
message boy, Phidippides, was tasked with running to Athens to summon troops.
The Athenian army, outnumbered four to one, launched a surprise offensive, and
what looked like suicide turned out to be astonishing victory. Thousands of
Persians lay dead. The rest fled to their ships, to try to attack Athens
directly. A secret message had to be sent again to Athens, to tell them of the
victory and of the impending assault. Once more, the message boy Phidippides was
entrusted with the mission. Mind you, he’d been on the battlefield all morning
himself, in heavy armor. No matter. He ran all the way, ran as fast as his feet
could carry him, twenty-six miles, delivered the news, and then keeled over
dead. Quite a tradition, that of the Greek message boy.”
“Surprise attacks and secret messages—I can see why the tale appeals to you. But
you’re not answering my question, Andros. Why you?”
“Because, my friend, I happened to be in the neighborhood.” Andros smiled again.
“I like to imagine that’s what the boy of ancient Greece panted before he
collapsed. No, Janson, you’ve got it all wrong. In this case, the message
belongs to the one who can locate its recipient. Thousands of carrier pigeons
were sent out—this one happened to arrive. It seems that by the time your old
colleagues got word you’d arrived in this country, they’d lost your scent. They
needed me, with my network of connections. I know someone in just about every
hotel, taverna, kapheneion, and ouzeri in this part of town. I put word out, I
got word back. Do you think any American attaché could work as fast?” Andros
revealed an even row of sharp-looking, almost feral teeth. “But then if I were
you, I’d fret less about the singer and more about the song. You see, they’re
especially anxious about talking to you because they need you to explain certain
matters.”
“What matters?”
Andros sighed heavily, theatrically. “Questions have arisen concerning your
recent activities that require an immediate explanation.” He shrugged. “Look, I
know nothing of these matters. I merely repeat lines I have been given, like an
aging actor in one of our epitheorisi, our soap operas.”
Janson laughed scornfully. “You’re lying.”
“You’re rude.”
“There’s no way that my former employers would entrust you with such an
assignment.”
“Because I’m an outheteros? A nonpartisan? But, like you, I have changed. I am a
new man.”
“You, a new man?” Janson scoffed. “Hardly new. Hardly a man.”
Andros stiffened. “Your former employers … are my present employers.”
“Another lie.”
“No lie. We Greeks are people of the agora, the marketplace. But you can have no
market without competition. Free market, competition—eh? These things that get
so much lip service from your politicos. The world has changed a great deal in
the past decade. Once, the competition was lively. Now you have the agora to
yourself. You own the market, and call it free.” He tilted his head. “So what is
one to do? My erstwhile Eastern clients open their wallets and only the odd moth
nutters out. Their main intelligence concern is about whether there will be
enough heating fuel in Moscow this winter. I am a luxury they can no longer
afford.”
“There are plenty of hard-liners at the KGB who would still value your
services.”
“What use is a hard-liner without hard currency? There comes a time when one
must choose sides, yes? I believe you often said that to me. I chose the side
with—what’s the charming American expression you have?—the long green.”
“That was always your side. Money was your only loyalty.”
“It wounds me when you talk that way.” He arched his eyebrows. “It makes me feel
cheap.”
“What game are you running, Andros? You trying to convince people that you’re on
the U.S. intelligence payroll now?”
The Greek’s eyes flashed with anger and disbelief. “You think I would tell my
friends that I was doing the work of this warm and fuzzy superpower? You imagine
a Greek can boast of such a thing?”
“Why not? Make yourself seem important, like a real player …”
“No, Paul. It would make me seem like an Americanofilos, a stooge of Uncle Sam.”
“And what’s so bad about that?”
Andros shook his head pityingly. “From others I might expect such self-delusion.
Not from someone as worldly as you. The Greek people do not hate America for
what it does. They hate it for what it is. Uncle Sam is loathed here. But
perhaps I should not be surprised at your innocence. You Americans have never
been able to wrap your minds around anti-Americanism. You so want to be loved
that you cannot understand why there is so little love for you. Ask yourself why
America is so hated. Or is that beyond you? A man wears big boots and wonders
why the ants beneath his feet fear and hate him—he has no such feelings toward
them!”
Janson was silent for a moment. If Andros had cemented a relationship with
American intelligence, he was not doing so for the bragging rights: that much
was true. But how much else was?
“Anyway,” Andros went on, “I explained to your old colleagues that you and I had
especially cordial relations. An abiding trust and affection established over
long years.”
That sounded like Andros all right: the glib, at-the-ready lies, the vacant
assurances. Janson could well imagine it: if Andros had got wind that a contact
was to be made, he might easily decide to angle for the job. Words coming from a
trusted friend, Andros would have told the Cons Op liaison officer, are more
likely to be received without suspicion.
Janson stared at the Greek interloper and felt a roiling sense of tension. They
want you to come in.
But why? Those words were not used lightly among Janson’s former employers. They
were not words that one could ignore without consequences.
“There’s something you’re not saying,” Janson prodded.
“I’ve told you what I was instructed to tell you,” Andros replied.
“You’ve told me what you’ve told me. Now tell me what you haven’t.”
Andros shrugged. “I hear things.”
“What things?”
He shook his head. “I don’t work for you. No pay, no play.”
“You son of a bitch,” Janson exploded. “Tell me what you know or—”
“Or what? What are you going to do—shoot me? Leave your hotel room stained with
the blood of an American asset in good standing? That’ll clear the air, all
right.”
Janson looked at him for a few moments. “I’d never shoot you, Nikos. But an
agent of your new employers just might. After they learn about your connection
to Noemvri.”
His reference to Greek’s notorious November 17 group, the elusive terrorist cell
long sought by American intelligence, provoked an immediate reaction.
“There’s no such connection!” Andros snapped.
“Then tell them. They’re sure to believe you.”
“Really, you’re being exasperating. That’s a whole-cloth invention. It’s no
secret that I was opposed to the colonels, but connected to the terrorists?
That’s preposterous. A slander.”
“Yes.” Something like a smile played around Janson’s lips.
“Well.” Andros fidgeted uneasily. “They wouldn’t believe you, anyway.”
“Only it wouldn’t come from me. Don’t you think I can still game the system?
I’ve spent years in counterintelligence—I know just how to plant information so
that it can never be traced back to me and so that it gains credibility with
each remove from its source.”
“I believe you’re talking out of your ass.”
“A member of the Greek parliament unburdens himself to another, who, unbeknownst
to him, is on the CIA payroll. Through cutaways and filters, the information
ends up on a MemCon, a memorandum of conversation, filed with the local station
chief. Who, by the way, hasn’t forgotten that the November 17 terrorists
assassinated one of his predecessors. Source rating: highly credible. Report
rating: highly credible. A question mark goes by your name, in ink. Now your
paymasters have quite an unpleasant dilemma. Even the possibility that a 17
Noemvri associate was receiving U.S. funds would create a scandal within the
intelligence community. It would be a career-ender for anyone involved. If
you’re the case officer, you could order an investigation. But is that an