The Road Least Traveled

by Jerry Cole

  “Mr. March,” said the man, and Greg searched his face. He did not recognize it from any of the websites he’d searched through the previous night. This man did not look to be a member of the municipality staff. To begin with, he wore slim black jeans and thongs, which revealed dusty toes. He wore a shirt of pale blue linen and had floppy black hair which had been pushed back by a pair of aviator sunglasses. His eyes were gleefully friendly and Greg could not help but smile at the unexpected welcome.

  “It’s Marsh,” he corrected, “not March.”

  “I am so very sorry,” said the man. “Mr. Marsh, my name is Alexander Petrou.” He searched Greg’s face for a hint of recognition, but when there was none, his smile dropped.

  “You have no idea who I am?” he asked, and dropped Greg’s hand.

  “I have only been here a little more than twenty-four hours,” said Greg, his voice apologetic. “Please forgive me if I should know who you are.”

  “I will explain everything once we get upstairs,” said Alexander. “I have been waiting here for you.”

  “For me? How did you know I was due to be here this morning? Are you also meeting with Mr. Dimitriou?”

  “Yes, yes!” said Alexander, and his enthusiasm was such that Greg could not help but be intrigued. He watched as the tall, dark Greek looked past him to the girl behind the desk, who had placed a call upstairs and was putting the telephone back in its cradle.

  “Maria, it is correct, yes?” he asked the girl. “Mr. Dimitriou is expecting Mr. March?”

  “Marsh,” Greg muttered. The girl nodded.

  “That’s right,” she said. “He has confirmed that he is expecting you. Please sign in, and take the elevator to the second floor. Turn right, and it is the room immediately on your left.”

  “Efcharisto poli, Maria,” said Alexander. “Thank you very much. We will find it.”

  The two men obediently did as instructed and signed their names and the time of their arrival on the notepad on the desk. Alexander went first, signing his name with a flourish. However, when it was Greg’s turn, he noticed that the Greek man had made no reference to who he was visiting. Greg passed over the thought with little more than a subconscious mental note but he did think it strange. Greg himself clearly noted that he was there for a meeting with Mr. Dimitriou.

  Alexander was waiting for Greg by the elevator, his friendly smile seemingly a permanent fixture. Greg stepped forward and pushed a silver button to call the elevator and made sure his tie was straight. In his hand, he carried a briefcase in which detailed maps and plans of Betty’s intended route had been meticulously planned out. He also had a tablet and his laptop, from which he could access the Californian office’s network. He was ready to face the secretary general.

  Chapter Nine

  The ride in the elevator was short but bumpy, as the old metal box creaked and clanged its way up the center of the building. Greg did not make eye contact with Alexander Petrou, and both men stared ahead at the doors, waiting for them to soon open. From a sideways glance, however, Greg noted that his new acquaintance was tall, even taller than Greg’s six-foot, one-inch frame. He must have been six-foot three. His shoulders were broad, his back straight, and from the sly look Greg gave him, he noticed that Alexander’s mouth still seemed to be smiling. The man looked cheerful even in an elevator. He wondered whether Alexander was present to translate the meeting. Of course, he thought, this Dimitriou guy must have poor English.

  He felt better, and the doors creaked open onto a wooden parquet floor. Alexander waved his hand forward, inviting Greg to step out first, and Greg did so. He recalled Maria’s instructions and turned to the right. There was a long, slim boardroom to his left, glass panels along the wall, giving him a complete view of the room. It was empty. However, the room was clearly meant for them, so Greg had no reservations about opening the door and letting himself inside. Alexander followed him. There were bottles of cold water on a low table, along with some glasses. They appeared to be fresh out of a refrigerator, presumably for the meeting, and Greg took one and offered it to Alexander, who took the bottle with a large grin. They opened the lids of their bottles and gulped down water, the noise of their drinking the only thing that punctuated the silence.

  Within a minute, however, the door opened and a small man, slim, wearing a white shirt with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, entered the room. His hair was thin and dark, and over his bald head he had combed some errant strands in the hope of seeming hairier than he really was. Greg’s first impression was not too favorable. He was a long-time opponent of the combover. He found it untrustworthy, as though a person attempted to hide something about themselves. He had put the case forward to his best friend many a time.

  “They are trying to hide something about themselves,” Henry had protested. “They’re going bald.”

  “But why not just leave it to nature?” Greg asked. “It just doesn’t look good, my friend.”

  “So speaketh the man with the beautiful head of hair,” sighed Henry, although in good humor. “You have no right to an opinion on this matter.”

  Recalling the conversation, and remembering that he was in the office for a crucial business meeting, Greg made a strong effort to push his feelings about vanity aside. He got up from his chair and shook hands with the man, whose hand was limp and clammy.

  Strike two, thought Greg. Not impressed so far.

  “Mr. Marsh, I am Costas Dimitriou,” said the man, as expected, and Greg smiled.

  “It’s great to meet you,” he said. “Please, call me Greg.”

  “Greg.”

  Then Costas looked past Greg, at Alexander Petrou, and his expression changed from mild intrigue to one of incredulity. He looked at Greg, then back at Alexander.

  “You two have met?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Greg. “We met downstairs, when we signed in.”

  “Ah,” said Costas, and rather than shaking Alexander’s outstretched hand, he simply gave the cheerful man a curt nod and walked past him, to the head of the table.

  “Alexander,” he said, barely making eye contact with him.

  “Costas,” smiled Alexander, completely unabashed by the snub and continuing to smile. Greg was bewildered. He felt utterly out of his depth before the meeting had begun, in a room where there was clearly an established situation he was no part of. However, his professional experience came into play, and he calmly took a seat to the right of the secretary general, as Alexander sat on his left. Together the three men occupied only the very end of the large table. Behind Alexander was a whiteboard, streaked with old markings and ink that had not been fully erased.

  Once all three men were seated, Costas and Alexander looked expectantly at Greg, as though to wait for him to begin to speak. That suited Greg perfectly, and he reached into his bag and pulled out his tablet and a bundle of maps.

  “I’m grateful for your time today, Mr. Dimitriou,” Greg said. “I understand that this meeting was arranged very late yesterday, and I appreciate that you are a busy man.”

  Costas nodded gravely. Yes, he seemed to say. I am very busy and important, and I have better things to do than speak with an American. Greg continued.

  “We are at an impasse,” he said. “I am here representing Turbo Metro Drilling. We are the company that has been engaged by your government, and by extension, the people of your beautiful city, to expand their horizons. And by that, I mean that by the time our work here is done, you will be on a journey to a more efficient, productive and modern city than the one you have now.”

  Both men were listening and Greg was not interrupted. He took their silence as a cue to continue, and did so.

  “However, since my men arrived with our sophisticated machinery, we have met with severe opposition. We are being hampered at every turn and we cannot complete our work.”

  He opened up a map onto the table, and with a pen from his top pocket, he pointed at the map; more specifically, Betty’s location.

&nbs
p; “Here is my machine. Currently sitting eighty feet underneath the earth. Underneath your city. Billions of dollars of machinery and expert craftsmanship. Idle. At your expense, Mr. Dimitriou. I want to help your city. I want to get this job done right. I want to build your tunnel. I want to expand the possibilities in ways you have never even thought about. I want to make the lives of the people of Thessaloniki, and maybe one day, the whole of Greece, that much more convenient, and for some reason, my company is being sabotaged daily.”

  Costas Dimitriou sat back in his chair. He stared at Greg through heavily-lidded eyes, and said nothing. Then he leaned forward again to look at the map.

  “The site is here, yes?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Greg. “Right here. And Betty is over here.”

  “That is not far,” Costas said, and Greg gave a snort.

  “Exactly,” he said. “We should be at least three times as far along as we are. We have dug about one hundred yards in three weeks. Now that is not good, Mr. Dimitriou. I have a crew of men who cannot get onto the site because every morning, when they arrive, there is new chaos that they have to deal with.”

  Dimitriou’s face was blank. He shrugged. “Chaos?”

  “Yes, sir. Chaos.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “Have the police not informed you of why I’m here?” Greg asked. Dimitriou shook his head.

  “Nikos Virkakis called me yesterday and arranged this meeting,” he said. Greg was sure he looked bored. “From what I thought, you were here to ask for more money.”

  “No, Mr. Dimitriou,” Greg replied, frustrated but remaining calm. “That’s not why I’m here. If anything, I’m trying to save you money. I’m trying to save us both money. But for as long as my men cannot get onto the site, and for as long as my machine remains under the ground, it’s costing both us of more money than I care to quantify right now.”

  “Mr. Marsh, I am not an engineer,” said Dimitriou. “I do not understand the complexities of why you are unable to tunnel underneath the city. What I can tell you is that many have tried, and failed, to bring a metro to Thessaloniki. Perhaps it is simply a case of our city being unable to accommodate such—”

  “Mr. Dimitriou,” said Greg firmly. “Your city is more than able to handle this tunnel being built. There are years’ worth of research that have proved that. However, the site is being vandalized. My men are coming to work to find walls blocking their entrance to the tunnel. The cranes that carry down vital materials are being mysteriously driven off the site, and across the city, turning up at ludicrous locations, where they must be driven back. Now so far, we have been able to keep the machine itself intact, but I fear it is only a matter of time before she too is attacked and damaged. What I am here today to ask you for is some cooperation. I would like for you to install the proper security and to police the people who have been vandalizing the area.”

  He stopped and looked at Dimitriou, who said nothing to Greg, but who turned instead to the third member of the meeting, who so far had been quiet.

  “I imagine you may know something about this, Alexander?” he asked, his voice weary with experience. He sounded like the principal of a school, ready for retirement and tired of the scrapes his most frustrating pupil got into daily.

  Greg was confused. “Why would he know anything about this?” he asked Dimitriou. “We only met this morning. Who is he?”

  “Would you like to explain, Alexander?” replied the secretary general, and from across the table, Alexander grinned and held up his hands in surrender.

  “Costas, you know me,” he said lightly, as though discussing how he’d thrown an egg at the principal’s car on the way out of the school parking lot. “I do what I can to stop this country from destroying history.”

  “Please tell me what’s going on,” said Greg, the clouds of confusion becoming thicker and more desperate. “What am I missing?”

  Dimitriou pointed to Alexander. “This man is an archaeologist,” he said. “He is the one who has been building your walls, driving your cranes away and stopping your machine.”

  “Guilty as charged,” laughed Alexander, and all Greg could do was stare at him, incredulous, his jaw clenched.

  Chapter Ten

  “You?” Greg asked, when he had finally regained his composure. “You’re the one who’s caused so much damage. I’ve had to get on a plane from the U.S., taking me twenty-four hours to get here? You’re the one who’s stopping my men from working?”

  “Correction,” said Alexander, “I’m stopping your company from bulldozing your way through history with your huge, ugly machine. You have no regard for what is under this city. I, therefore, have no regard for your company or what it stands for.”

  “I’ve been employed by your country,” said Greg, wanting to reach over and literally tug the annoying smile from the archaeologist’s face. It wasn’t smug. It was simply a smile that portrayed a lack of responsibility. Alexander Petrou did not care about Greg’s work.

  “Your taxes are paying for TMD to be here,” Greg continued. “These orders came from Athens. Because people are tired of looking at pretty ruins and learning about history. People are tired of not being able to get to work because they have to sit in traffic for four hours a day. People are tired of getting home so late that they can’t sit and have dinner with their families and play with their kids. They want change. They want progress. And you’re hindering that by breaking the law.”

  “I don’t believe there is a law against building a wall,” said Alexander. “I don’t believe there is a law against driving a crane. I don’t believe there is a law against having a few drinks in the evening with friends.”

  “It’s trespassing,” growled Greg. “And I intend to stop you with everything I have.”

  He looked at Dimitriou, who seemed little more than mildly amused at the interaction between the quarreling men, both eager to put across their points. He turned his neck to the left, then to the right, like a spectator at a tennis match.

  “Mr. Dimitriou,” said Greg, “I can pay for more security. I will be happy to make a donation to the cause of your choice. I understand that money talks in this city.”

  He glanced at Alexander. “If you’ll excuse us?” Dimitriou asked.

  Alexander shrugged, muttered some Greek to the secretary general and left the room.

  “I don’t think I’ve explained how vital it is that we do this work,” Greg began, and Dimitriou held up his hands.

  “I will get you the security,” he said. “He will not be able to get in. I will have to send you a bill for the extra men I will need to employ, of course.”

  “Of course,” said Greg, through gritted teeth. He was frustrated beyond words. He was required to pay extra for security to the city whose metro he was helping to build. He had no doubts that a great chunk of the extra cash would find its way into Costas Dimitriou’s pocket.

  “But once this tunnel is dug,” said the secretary general, “what then? What about the next tunnel? And the one after that?”

  “I don’t follow,” said Greg.

  “He will make your life difficult,” said Dimitriou. “I suggest you work with him, not against him.”

  “I don’t plan on uttering another word to that hippy,” Greg retorted, and he placed his maps and papers back into his briefcase, stood up and reached out his hand. Dimitriou shook it, amused at the gravity of his guest’s tone.

  “You will have men on the site within two hours.”

  “Thank you,” Greg replied, with genuine gratitude. “I appreciate that. That’s all I needed.”

  He left. There was no sign of Alexander by the elevator, and as Greg pushed the button to call the rickety cart, he wanted to punch the air with joy. It was a win. The first thing to have gone right for him since his arrival in the city. But he did not intend for it to be his last victory.

  He signed out of the visitor’s book and waved at Maria, who smiled with only her mouth, and not her eyes. H
e saw from the book that Alexander had already signed out also. Good, thought Greg. Let him scurry away with his tail between his legs. He should learn not to mess with the big boys. As he walked out of the building, there was a definite bounce to Greg’s step. He almost skipped down the steps to the street, whistling The Star-Spangled Banner.

  The whistling came to an abrupt end when he spied his nemesis leaning on a car directly outside the municipality building, as if in wait for him. Greg stopped, put a hand in the pocket of his pants and stared at Alexander. Then he pulled out his shades and placed them over his eyes, before walking away. It was several seconds before Greg realized that he was walking in the wrong direction and instead of heading back toward the hotel, was on his way up a street to who knows where. He couldn’t turn around, though. Couldn’t possibly give Alexander the satisfaction of knowing that the stupid American couldn’t even find his way home. Instead, Greg continued to put one foot in front of the other. He’d find a bar, somewhere to sit outside and enjoy a coffee or maybe even a cold beer on this hot day.

  He reached into his pocket again and this time pulled out his cell phone. He debated calling Henry when he realized it was still the middle of the night in California. He decided to get to a bar first, then sit down and fire off some emails, updating the office with the successful developments. By the time he finished, if what Dimitriou said was correct, then there would be experienced, capable security guards on the site, and work could resume as soon as possible. His next job was to find Eddie and get the crew working again, only this time on moving Betty forward, and not hammering down makeshift concrete walls.

  Greg heard footsteps behind him and instinctively moved to the left, to let whoever was hurrying pass by without obstacle. However, when he did so, the footsteps slowed down to a walk and Greg felt a hand on his arm. He whirled around, and there was Alexander again, the grin on his face never faltering.