The Facts Of Death

by Raymond Benson

  “That’s correct. Pythagoras was much more than a mathematician. Socrates and Plato owed a great deal to Pythagoras. You should come to one of our gatherings down in Cape Sounion sometime. It is a wise man who looks and listens. Pythagoras argued that there are three kinds of men, just as there were three classes of strangers who went to the Olympic Games. The lowest were those who went to buy and sell, and next above them were those who came to compete. The best of all were those who simply came to observe. We are all lovers of either gain, honor, or wisdom. Which do you love, Mr. Bryce?”

  “I love a little of all three, I think,” Bond said.

  “The Master—that is, Pythagoras—demanded that those desiring instruction should first study mathematics. The Pythagoreans reduced everything in life to numbers because you can’t argue with numbers. We usually don’t get upset about mutiplying two and getting four. If emotions were involved, one might try to make it five and quarrel with another who might try and make it three, all for personal reasons. In maths, truth is clearly apparent and emotions are eliminated. A mind capable of understanding mathematics is above the average, and is capable of rising to the higher realms of the world of abstract thought. There, the pupil is functioning closest to God.”

  “I should have studied harder in school,” Bond said.

  “The Master said that we are all part of the world in an unlimited boundary. When, however, we come to the process by which things are developed out of the Unlimited, we observe a great change. The Unlimited becomes the Limited. That is the great contribution of Pythagoras to philosophy, and we must try to understand it. Life is made up of many contraries, Mr. Bryce. Hot and cold, wet and dry, one and many. The most consistent principle underlying Pythagorean philosophy and mathematics is a dialectic procedure involving the relationship, and usually the reconciliation, of polar opposites. We believe that when the One becomes the Many, a new order will take its place on earth.”

  “And who is the One? You?”

  Romanos shook his head. “That is not for me to say. The One is perfection. I’m certainly not perfect. You saw me lose at baccarat a few minutes ago.”

  “No, you’re not perfect, Mr. Romanos. Not yet. Only when you reach the number ten will you be perfect, am I right?”

  Romanos looked hard at Bond. “What do you mean?”

  Bond tried to make light of what he had said. “The ten points of the equilateral triangle. Your logo. I’ve seen it. You haven’t reached the number ten yet, have you?”

  “No. It is difficult to do in a lifetime.”

  “Is it something like nirvana? Getting closer to God?”

  “You might say that.”

  “Well, seeing that you’ve completed number seven, you don’t have too far to go.”

  Bond could see Romanos stiffen at that. In those few minutes, Bond perceived that Romanos might be a genius, but he was also a madman. He had taken basic and inherently positive principles of Pythagorean philosophy and twisted them into something bizarre. If he were truly the leader of the Decada, then it wasn’t difficult to believe that weak-minded fools would follow him.

  Sensing something was wrong, Vassilis stepped up to Romanos and whispered in his ear. Romanos never took his eyes off Bond. Romanos nodded slightly and said something to his cousin in Greek that Bond didn’t understand.

  “I must step out for a minute. Please enjoy yourself, Mr. Bryce. In parting, let me tell you something that was attributed to Pythagoras. In mathematics, the logical process is to first lay down postulates—that is, statements that are accepted without proof—and then go through deductive reasoning. I apply that logic to everyday life, Mr. Bryce. Proof must proceed from assumptions. Without proof, an assumption is meaningless. Remember that the next time you start making assumptions. I’ll be back at the baccarat table in a little while if you’d care to try your luck again.”

  “Thank you. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Romanos,” Bond said. Romanos got up and followed Vassilis out of the room.

  Bond finished his martini and had started to get up when he noticed the redheaded woman eyeing him from an adjacent table. She was sitting alone, sipping a glass of wine.

  “Whatever did you say to Mr. Romanos to upset him so?” she asked in a thick Greek accent.

  “Did I upset him?” Bond asked.

  “He looked upset to me,” she said. “I don’t think it was because you beat him at baccarat.”

  “Do you know Mr. Romanos?”

  “I know who he is. He is something of a personality in Greece.”

  “And you are … ?”

  She held out her hand. “I’m Hera Volopoulos. Please sit down … Mr. Bryce, was it?”

  “John Bryce.” Bond took a seat beside her and admired her even more than before. She was absolutely stunning. The blue eyes stood out like jewels against her white face and red hair. He removed his gunmetal cigarette case and offered her one. She took it; then he lit hers and his own with the Ronson lighter he always carried in his pocket.

  “What brings you to Greece, Mr. Bryce?”

  “I’m a writer,” he said.

  “Have I read anything you’ve written?”

  “I doubt it. Mostly articles in obscure English journals. They’re not widely distributed.”

  “I see.”

  “And what brings you here on a fine Friday night?”

  “I come here because I enjoy gambling. My late husband used to come here often, and I suppose I got into the habit. I have friends whom I see here every now and then. Sometimes it’s a pleasant way to meet men.”

  She exhaled audibly, accentuating the last thing she said with a billow of smoke. Bond interpreted that as an invitation. He briefly thought of Niki and wondered if she might turn up at the hotel unexpectedly. The possibility was remote.

  “What do you know about Mr. Romanos?” Bond asked.

  “Only that he’s very rich, and he’s supposed to have a better than average brain. I think he’s very handsome.”

  As she said that, Bond noticed Romanos and his cousin reentering the casino. They went straight for the baccarat table without looking in their direction.

  “I can see that he has a certain charm,” Bond said.

  “How long will you be in Greece, Mr. Bryce?” she asked.

  Bond made a whimsical gesture and said, “As long as the gods will have me.”

  Hera smiled. “I was named after one of the gods,” she said.

  “The queen of the gods, if I remember correctly.”

  “Yes, but she wasn’t a very nice queen. Very jealous. She made poor Hercules go mad and kill his wife and children. She came between Jason and Medea. She was always doing something nasty. However, she did possess the ability to renew her virginity every year by bathing in a magical pool.”

  “Is that really an advantage?”

  “I suppose to Zeus it was. He was a lecherous old fool, chasing after virgins all the time. It was the only way she could keep him interested.”

  “And what do you do to keep someone like Zeus interested? Do you have a magic pool?”

  Hera smiled seductively. “I like you, Mr. Bryce. Why don’t we have dinner? I can show you around Athens.”

  Bond was tempted. He thought briefly of Niki again, then discarded any feelings of loyalty to her. He was on an assignment. It was his way, he couldn’t help it.

  “It’s awfully late for dinner, isn’t it?”

  “In Greece we eat very late and stay up until the early hours. Come on, you can follow me to my home in Filothei. It’s pretty there. I’ll fix us a light snack. We can sit on my balcony and enjoy the night air.”

  He had to admit that she was irresistible. “All right,” he said. “Are you parked down below?”

  “Yes, we’ll ride the cable car together.”

  He got up and took her hand to help her up. As he looked into her eyes, her pupils dilated slightly.

  As they walked out of the casino, he looked over at the baccarat table. Romanos was glaring at
the cards. His luck hadn’t improved. He had relit his thin cigar and was puffing on it furiously. Vassilis, the big man, was staring in Bond’s direction. Bond nodded slightly to him, but the bodyguard only scowled at him.

  They walked out through the plain corridors to the cable car entrance. There were two men waiting for the car, which was on its way up. When it arrived, one of the two men gestured graciously for Bond and Hera to step inside first. They got in and settled themselves at the back of the car so they could look at the view of the city. The two men got in, the door closed, and the car began its five-minute journey back down to the base of Mount Parnitha.

  As soon as the cable car left the platform and was in the air, Bond glanced back at the two men. Each held a semiautomatic handgun, cocked and ready to fire.

  SEVENTEEN

  QUEEN OF THE GODS

  ONE OF THE MEN BARKED SOMETHING IN GREEK AND GESTURED WITH THE gun for Bond and Hera to get down on the cable car floor. Bond figured that these goons worked for Vassilis Romanos. Perhaps they knew his identity after all. He had been so distracted by the woman that he had carelessly let down his guard.

  Hera asked the man something in Greek.

  “Markos says lie down on the floor,” the other man said in English. “This will only take a second.”

  Hera looked at Bond with fear in her eyes. He whispered to her, “Don’t worry, just do what they say.”

  The cable car was approaching the first support tower. There were three such towers between the casino and the ground terminal. Bond remembered from the earlier trip that when the car passed one of the support towers, it lurched slightly as the wheels moved over the metal housing the cable. If he timed it just right …

  Bond held up his hands. “What is this? A robbery? I really didn’t win that much, fellows.”

  “Move!” the second man commanded.

  “Look, I’ll give you my wallet.” Bond slowly reached for the inside of his jacket.

  “Keep your hands up,” the English-speaking thug said. The one called Markos asked the second man something in Greek. Bond caught the words “Ari,” “money,” and “wallet.” This aroused the curiosity of the second man, who Bond presumed was called Ari. He hadn’t planned on robbing his victim. Perhaps the Englishman did have a bit of cash on him. Markos spat out an order in Greek.

  “All right, give us your wallet first. Slowly. No tricks,” Ari said. “And we’ll take the lady’s handbag too.”

  The cable car was two seconds away from the support tower. Bond reached inside his jacket and grasped the Walther PPK. The car moved over the cable housing in the tower and the entire cabin lurched. Bond jumped up and landed on the floor hard, causing the cable car to tilt. The two men lost their balance. Bond drew the gun and fired at Markos, hitting him in the shoulder. He dropped his gun. Ari began firing his pistol wildly. Hera screamed and cowered in a corner of the cable car. Three bullets smashed windows behind Bond. Shards of broken glass scattered all over the floor of the car. Bond leaped to the floor, slid forward, and tackled the thug. Both Bond and Ari dropped their weapons.

  The cable car was rocking now, still descending to the ground. The guns slid to the opposite end of the car and lay out of reach. Bond rolled on top of Ari and punched him hard in the face. Markos, bleeding profusely from his bullet wound, climbed on top of Bond and attempted to pull him off. Bond brought his left elbow back hard into the man’s nose. He cried out in pain.

  By now, the element of surprise had worn off. Ari raised his knee into Bond’s stomach. He then landed a blow on Bond’s chin, knocking him over and onto the floor. Both men jumped on top of Bond and began to pummel him with their fists. Trying desperately to protect himself, Bond brought his arms up in front of his face. The two men were strong and tough. Their ugly faces were right above him, snarling.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Bond saw Hera huddled on the floor at the other end. One of the guns was inches from her, but she was frozen with fear. Bond realized that he couldn’t rely on her to help.

  Bond reached out quickly and grabbed the men’s heads in his hands. He slammed them together hard, then thrust his fists into their noses. They fell back, giving Bond time to get to his feet. Ari leaped for his gun but Bond grabbed his legs. He couldn’t reach it. This gave Markos time to make a move for his weapon. Bond stuck out his leg and tripped him, and Markos slammed into the side of the car, breaking more glass. Ari grabbed a large shard of glass and swung it at Bond. The edge cut through Bond’s jacket and sliced the front of his shoulder along the collarbone. Bond released the man’s legs and jumped to his feet. He immediately attacked Markos with a Ushirogeri back kick, causing the thug to bend forward, out of breath. Bond took hold of his shoulders and pulled him up and over. Markos crashed through the opposite window and out of the cable car. He screamed loudly as he fell to his death.

  Ari got to his feet and lunged at Bond with the glass shard. Bond grabbed his arm and struggled with him. They fell to the floor. The glass was inches away from Bond’s face. The thug held it so tightly that it was cutting his own hand; blood was seeping out through his fist. Bond summoned all of his strength to twist the man’s arm back toward him. They were evenly matched and it was now simply a matter of who would give out first.

  The cable car went over the second support tower. In another minute or so they would be on the ground. Bond knew he had to avoid any police action or his cover would be blown and the assignment would be compromised.

  The two men’s arms trembled. Bond took a deep breath and strained harder to push Ari’s arms backward. They slowly moved so that the shard was now pointing at the man’s throat. His eyes widened as he realized he was losing the struggle. Bond kept pushing. The point of the shard was now touching the assailant’s Adam’s apple.

  “Who are you working for?” Bond asked through clenched teeth.

  Ari spat in Bond’s face.

  Suddenly, Hera came to life and got up from her position on the floor. She knelt behind Ari, reached for his hair, and pulled it. Ari yelled but kept his attention on Bond and the glass shard. Enraged, Bond used his last remaining ounce of strength to shove the man’s arms. The glass shard pierced the man’s throat, cutting through his windpipe and severing his spinal cord. His eyes glazed and his head rolled over in a final, ghastly exhalation of bad breath and bloody spittle.

  Bond stood up and retrieved his gun. Hera collapsed back against the wall of the car, breathing heavily.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She nodded. “You’re hurt.”

  He examined the wound on his shoulder. It was minor, but he had to get it treated. He looked out the front window of the cable car and saw the ground terminal approaching. He didn’t want to be in the car when it stopped.

  “It’s not so bad. Look, you don’t have to come with me, but I’m going to jump out of the window. I can’t let the authorities question me about this.”

  “Of course,” she said. She reached into her handbag and pulled out a card. “This is my address. Go there. I’ll handle the authorities. I have some influence at the casino. They all know me. I’ll be home shortly and tend to that wound. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

  Bond climbed through one of the broken windows and prepared to leap out to the ground before the car entered the terminal. He counted to three as the cable car brushed the tops of the trees on the ground, then jumped, landed hard on the ground, rolled, and got to his feet. The cable car entered the terminal. Bond ran to the parking lot and got into the Jaguar before any of the authorities knew what had happened.

  Hera lived in a luxurious suburb of Athens called Filothei. It was full of green parks, quiet wide roads, and many large houses and villas with big gardens. Using the Jaguar’s satellite navigation and road map features, he drove onto Kiffisias Avenue, a large three-lane street with trees in the middle. Eventually he found L. Akrita Street, and the three-story building of flats where she lived. Bond parked the Jaguar and waited. Nearly an hour later, he
saw her pull up in a Mercedes-Benz, get out, and walk toward the front. He got out of his car and called to her.

  “Oh, there you are, Mr. Bryce,” she said. “Come on up, I live upstairs. How do you feel?”

  “All right. Call me John. How did it go?”

  “Not a problem, John,” she said. “I just flashed a smile at the manager and said that we were almost robbed and that you jumped out the window and ran. It was the truth! The only thing I didn’t tell them was your name.”

  They got to the third floor and entered a tastefully furnished flat that was filled with artwork and statuettes. She threw her handbag on a chair and went straight into the bedroom.

  “Get yourself comfortable and come on in. We’ll take a look at that shoulder of yours,” she called from behind the door.

  Bond took off his jacket. His shirt was very bloody. He went into the bedroom, where she was standing next to the bathroom. He removed his shirt and looked at the wound. The gash wasn’t too bad—just messy. He had managed to sop up most of the blood in the car on the way to the flat.

  “You poor thing,” she said, leading him into the bathroom. She wet a cloth, then took her time cleaning the three-inch wound. Afterward, she led him back into the bedroom.

  “Press that cloth against it,” she said. “Just hold it there awhile.”

  He sat on the edge of the bed and watched her undress. She did it slowly, sensuously, like a professional striptease artist. When she was naked, she pulled down the sheets and slipped under them. Her long red hair spread out over the pillow.

  “I was afraid you’d cancel our date,” she said. “I’m glad you didn’t. I wanted to see what was under that hood of yours,” she said.

  “I don’t want to bleed on you,” he said. “It’s closed a bit. If you’re not too rough with me, I don’t think it’ll open up.”

  She raised up, letting the sheet drop to her waist. Her naked breasts were firm and full. She had large, red nipples that complimented her hair. There was a concentration of freckles on her chest, a physical trait that Bond always found tantalizing.