by Jerry Cole
He went through the duty-free lounge and glanced at the bottles of scotch but didn’t even lift one off of the shelf to read the label. The thought of Henry, back home in California, flicked into his mind but even that wasn’t enough for him to buy a bottle to take on the plane as a gift. He steeled himself enough to buy a bottle of perfume for Molly and some generic Greek candy for his cleaner, Rosa, who he knew had kids. Kids always liked candy. He didn’t get anything for anyone in the office. It wasn’t like he was coming back after a vacation, and there certainly wasn’t anything to celebrate.
While he was paying for the items his eye caught sight of the papers on the newsstand in the checkout area. The evening editions were already emblazoned with huge headlines in Greek letters that Greg knew announced the discovery of what could be the Great Palace of Thessaloniki, sister of Alexander the Great. There was a blurred photograph of the discovered mosaic, and even in black and white and nowhere near as sharp as it should have been, it still looked beautiful. It was the discovery of the century, that much was clear, but Greg felt nothing. There was a hollow void in his chest, and it stretched right down into his stomach. He clenched his jaw as he deposited his items on the counter and the young Greek assistant rang them through the checkout. He paid for his things and left the store with a plastic bag. He hadn’t bothered to turn the pages of the newspaper.
When he got back to his seat, he looked up at the television screens in the bar beside the lounges and saw that the news was showing. In the bar there were fifty, maybe seventy people, with their jaws open wide as they listened to the reporter outside the site tell of the wonderful things that had been revealed under their city. Flashes of cameras flickered all over the bar walls from the television and though he tried with all his might, Greg could not force himself to look away. He couldn’t understand a word that was being said, and he was not interested, either, but as a reporter was being interviewed for the channel, he saw behind her glossy red hair the entrance to the site, now fully secured with what looked to be ten or more guards, and this time they carried guns. And to the right of the site, he saw the sign. The sign of his company, TMD, emblazoned for all to see. Only they no longer had anything to do with work in the city. Everyone was getting ready to leave.
Greg blinked away from the screens for a second and looked outside into the dark night, which was lit up by huge floodlights that showed a neat row of airplanes waiting to be boarded. He looked at his watch: it was only eight-thirty. He still had another two and a half hours until the flight. He decided to kill some time by finding the quietest spot he could, where perhaps he’d be able to slowly drink himself into a comfortable fog until it was time to board. He reached down for the plastic bag between his legs and stood up, when he heard a familiar name on the television. Alexander Petrou.
Alex was being interviewed by the brassy reporter, who was grilling him with all manner of questions. Alex appeared to be deflecting as much as he could, calming everyone down and asking them not to get too carried away. He seemed taken aback by the brightness of the camera flashes that popped in his face, and he held his hand up in front of his eyes to block the glare. But he looked so handsome, and so serious, that Greg’s heart sighed deep within his chest. Greg swallowed and realized his eyes were filling with tears, and anyone who may have seen a tall, slim man with thick silver hair slowly dabbing at tears with the cuffs of his expensive shirt would only have presumed that he was simply overcome with the incredible discovery. Only Greg was crying for himself, for the longing he felt for the man on the screen. And not just that—he ached to be standing by him because he could see that there were streaks on Alex’s face that had been caused by tears that had channeled through the dirt and grime. Tears that he had shed in the hotel room earlier on, when he told Greg he loved him. And Greg had walked away.
He walked away once more, the irony not lost on him, and he headed towards the bathroom. He locked himself inside a cubicle and leaned his head against the door and cried.
The tiny airport made him feel claustrophobic and all Greg wanted to do was escape, but there was nowhere to go. Like a nomad, he wandered the lounge area, spending some time looking at the different flights in and out of the city. He ended up in a small amusement arcade, and poured coins into the slots of machines he didn’t even know how to work, until he settled on a roulette game that kept his mind slightly occupied until it was time to board.
On the plane he closed his eyes but couldn’t sleep. He wanted a drink, something to knock him out, but decided to wait until he got to Zurich. The plane taxied out onto the runway with agonizing slowness, until eventually it zoomed across the tarmac and lifted into the sky. At that moment, Greg realized he would have cared very little if the whole machine had plummeted back down again and slammed into the ground in a crumpled heap.
He landed in Zurich at two a.m., and once through security was back waiting in a lounge for the next few hours. Though he’d eaten only a few bites of a terrible sandwich earlier that night he wasn’t hungry. He wanted nothing but a drink. Thankfully the airport was so much larger that he enjoyed the long stroll towards the dining area, which was abuzz with people but not too crazy. He was on his way to the first-class lounge when he passed Tableaux, an exclusive bar. The prices of drinks and food were ridiculous even for a man with his expensive tastes, but he didn’t care. The more up its own ass the establishment was, the less likely there was to be anyone in there. The waiter who greeted him directed him to a booth and Greg passed him a fifty euro note. Now in Zurich, he realized that he may have to find an ATM that dispensed Swiss francs. But he was in luck.
“Do you use euros here?” he asked, his voice gruff.
“Of course,” said the waiter. “What can I get for you?”
“Some peace and quiet for a couple of hours,” he said, and the waiter nodded with understanding and bowed, placing the cash in the tiny pocket of his waistcoat.
“Of course, monsieur,” he said, and he directed Greg to a quiet booth at the furthest end of the bar. He provided Greg with a menu and quickly skimming it, Greg shrugged.
“Bring me a bottle of whatever you recommend,” he said, and slumped into the booth. He didn’t want to read, or look at emails, or even glance at his cell phone, but as his fingers itched for something to do he opened a card game app and played patiently until he was due to board. The waiter was as good as his word, approaching the table quietly only to bring a bottle of something dry and sparkling. He uncorked the bottle and left it on the table, along with a slim glass, which Greg filled over and over until the bottle was empty.
He boarded the final plane of his long and arduous journey with weary legs, and once again realized gratefully why it was so important at times such as these that he had booked a first-class ticket. He sat through the tedium of the in-flight security demonstration and once airborne, reclined the seat and lay in the fetal position with his eyes tightly shut in the dim light. He slept, but dreams of being lost in a long tunnel with no end plagued him. Betty loomed over him, blades whirring at terrifying speed, lights flashing like angry eyes.
The flight attendants offered him drinks and meals at the designated times and during the brief hours when he was awake, but he waved her away. The champagne from earlier had dulled his senses just enough to keep him sedated until they were over the Atlantic Ocean, but for the rest of the flight he never truly rested.
Finally, however, when he was sure he would soon scream if the plane didn’t land soon, they descended into LAX. Greg was like a zombie, shuffling through passport control, before picking up his luggage. His cell phone had been turned off since boarding the plane in Europe and he had no intention of turning it on again. He collected his luggage and exited the large airport as quickly as he could, having no desire to spend any more time in the third-such building in the space of sixteen hours. He had no idea what time it was, and he didn’t care, although the sun hinted that it was early morning as he exited the terminal. What day the sun had risen
on, however, he had no idea and his brain hurt him too much to even attempt to work it out. He hailed a cab, muttered his address, and was taken to his condo with the driver silently understanding that there was to be no small-talk, as Greg closed his eyes and dozed on the back seat.
And then he was home, finally, back in his condo, and he could do nothing but dump his suitcase, climb the stairs, close the drapes, pull off his clothes and lie naked on the gray sheets that he had not slept a wink on since they were changed weeks earlier.
He slept.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
He was awoken by hammering on the door. It was the kind of urgent hammering that brought bad news, perhaps by cops who came in the night to tell of an accident, or a next-door neighbor trying to alert the home owner of a fire coming from an upstairs window. The hammering didn’t stop as he opened his eyes and had trouble working out where he was. It didn’t stop as he pulled on his robe, and only ceased as he descended the stairs, as he knew whoever it was who was so desperate for his attention would have been able to see him through the glass. It was only at the moment he yanked open the door that he realized his head was pounding.
Standing on the doorstep was Henry Berman. His best friend, his colleague, his golfing buddy. The most reliable, affable man Greg had ever known. Only Henry didn’t look affable. He looked positively deathly, as though he had aged ten years in the few weeks Greg was away. Even his hair looked thinner. His eyes were full of worry, and the worry did not let up when he took in the sorry sight of Greg Marsh.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he exclaimed, and he let himself into the house without an invitation. All Greg could do was step aside and let Henry in, closing the door after them. They stood in the hallway.
“What in God’s name happened to you?” Henry asked.
“What day is it?” Greg croaked, his mouth thick with dehydration.
“It’s Tuesday morning,” said Henry, and he looked around the hallway at the discarded suitcase and the shoes Greg had kicked off upon entering the house, the hour of which he would never know. Henry pushed Greg toward the living room and guided him to the sofa, and Greg lay lengthways along it. Henry went into the kitchen and began making coffee, first bringing his friend a glass of cold water.
“Here,” he said. “Drink this. Then wake up and tell me what’s going on. We’ve been trying to contact you since Sunday. I didn’t even know you’d booked a flight home until I called the Electra and they told us you’d checked out on Sunday evening. I’ve been banging on your door for five minutes and I was about to give up and call the police. I thought we had a fucking missing person’s case and I can’t tell you how relieved I was when I saw you coming down those stairs.”
Greg sat up and sipped at the water, and when he realized how much his body was craving it, began to gulp it down. It disappeared within seconds and he held up the glass to Henry, who took it back into the kitchen and filled it up once more. Greg downed that one, too, and sat back on the sofa, panting. He didn’t speak. Henry filled the silence.
“TMD is on the news all over the world,” he said. “We might not be the biggest story, but we’re part of it. Marty’s gone out to Greece to try and talk the team into staying, but there’s no chance.”
“I don’t even want to talk about it,” said Greg, and he ran his hands through his hair. It was sticking up all over the place and he knew he needed a hot shower.
“You need to talk about it,” said Henry. “I can’t get anything out of Eddie, other than that he’s about two minutes away from throwing a stick of dynamite into that goddamned tunnel. Betty’s there and we can’t take her apart until we know what’s happening, and I’ve got Dwyer calling me asking me what the hell’s going on and what I’ve done with his CEO. Oh, you need to start talking, Greg. And fast.”
“Oh God.” Greg sat forward again and rubbed his eyes, resting his elbows on his hairy knees. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“Try the very beginning,” said Henry.
So Greg spent the next hour trying to make sense of the chaos inside his head. He told Henry about every detail he could recall, from the second he set foot on Egnatia, when he met Virkakis, and how he’d bribed him for a meeting with Costas Dimitriou. He went into great depth about the Greek authorities, their corrupt way of doing business, and the way he was duped into paying thousands for decent security. He skirted around any details about Alex, until it was absolutely necessary, and for the first time since they met, Greg lied to his best friend.
“They came onto the site when Betty was out of action this weekend,” he said. “Before we knew what had happened, they found evidence that there was something pretty important down there. Everything stopped. That night, the story was global. And I knew my time there was over. I’d failed.”
“You fucking jumped ship, that’s what you did,” said Henry. “You’re the captain. And you left your crew stranded out there.”
Greg took long, deliberate breaths, as the water in his stomach stirred other parts of his body into action and he flexed his aching muscles. The Captain. The words burned into his brain and scorched him deep inside. Henry was right. He’d let everyone down.
“I guess they’re wanting an explanation,” he said. “At the office, I mean.”
“You’re damned right,” said Henry. “And I guess that’s the best I’m going to get too, right?”
“It’s been a giant fucking shit show since day one.”
“So, what? You thought you could go over there and flash a little bit of cash here and there, maybe get a couple of government officials on our side, look like a hero and bust Betty through the other side?” Henry was angry. And he was hurt. Hurt by Greg’s silence most of all.
“Henry,” Greg pleaded, staring at his best friend with his watery blue eyes. “It wasn’t like that. Nothing could have prepared me for this. I didn’t mean to let anyone down. I had everything under control, or so I thought. Betty progressed further down there than any machine ever has, and…”
He paused. Henry looked at him, waiting for him to speak, but the words would not come out of his mouth.
…and I was introduced to a magical place, he wanted to say, but the very idea of saying it aloud was unthinkable. Henry would never talk to him again. Greg stared at the carpet, then looked up at his best friend with a weak attempt at a smile.
“How’s the family?” he asked.
“Oh God,” Henry groaned. “Don’t even ask me. Gaby’s missed a fucking period.”
“Looks like you’ll be hearing the pitter-patter of little pink shoes once again, huh?” Greg teased, and when he saw the grin on his friend’s face, he knew it would all be okay, at least between the two of them.
“I don’t know,” said Henry. “I feel like it might really be a boy this time.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Greg Marsh sat in front of a panel of three, their faces stern. In the middle was Richard Dwyer, president and founder of Turbo Metro Drilling. To his left was Marty Wiseman, CEO and Dwyer’s longest-standing employee. To his right was Eddie, finally home from Thessaloniki, sporting a beautiful tan and a very clenched jaw.
Behind Greg, a woman from Human Resources was scribbling down words on a pad as they were spoken, eager to ensure Greg had the best support she could possibly give him. Greg appreciated it.
Richard Dwyer was not a happy man. When the collapse of his biggest project had hit the news, it meant cutting short his golfing trip to Scotland, where he was about to tee off at St. Andrews with a certain actor who at one time had played the most famous spy in all of Britain, possibly even the world. He hadn’t expected to be called home to the U.S. to have stern words with his CEO.
The last time he’d been in this room with Dwyer, Greg was shaking the man’s hand after having accepted the offer of the job he’d spent years working for. He thought back to that day, how he felt like he was walking on air, and nothing could bring him down. It was that afternoon he’d gone out and bought
the Malaro T7, which he’d immediately driven to Henry’s. Those four months seemed a lifetime away, as Greg sat in the green leather chair facing his formidable boss.
“I think it’s fair to say that you’ve compromised the integrity of the biggest project TMD has had to date.”
Dwyer certainly didn’t mince words, that was for sure.
Greg nodded, his hands clasped in front of him. He wore a new suit and tie, and his hair, finally washed, was combed back slickly. He looked for all the world like he was there for a job interview, but anyone who may have thought that could not have been more wrong.
“It’s not so much that what was found down there was actually found,” went on Dwyer. “From what I’ve read, and from what we’ve talked about, Eddie, and Marty, and I, it was always a possibility that the work could have been halted at any moment due to a discovery of this magnitude. But I wouldn’t have thought in a million years that someone of your experience and, frankly, your love of the job, would do what you did. You allowed a total of fifteen unauthorized personnel onto the site and none of them had the correct safety gear, at least not up to the standard we’re proud of here at TMD.”
He paused and took a sip of water from a small squat glass in front of him, in which ice cubes clinked. Greg was not entirely sure that the liquid was in fact water. He thought about reaching over and taking the glass out of Dwyer’s hands and knocking it all back, down his own throat. He did not lose eye contact with the company’s president the entire time, and instead listened to every word with concentration.
“There’s the possibility that you tampered with machinery in order to halt proceedings so that you could get a team of archaeologists on site,” Dwyer continued. “However, that claim can’t be proven and I have no interest in progressing any further with that investigation. From what I’ve heard, there was every possibility that Betty’s fault could have been due to the increased rate of work over the previous two weeks. But whether that was the case or not, it’s clear that our machine, that is, the team we’ve put together, has a faulty link in it, and it’s caused the project to collapse. That faulty link is you, Greg.”