by Jon Land
It was a lazy Tuesday afternoon when Hal Taggart caught a whole squadron of rats munching away at his cereal supplies. He was searching desperately for his rifle when the first of the army trucks pulled off the access road into the outskirts of town. The sight of what might have been an entire company rolling in with full battle dress and gear—jeeps, a dozen trucks, and squat-looking armored things with slats for machine gun barrels—grabbed the eyes and ears of just about everyone. Many ventured tentatively into the streets to watch the soldiers climb from the trucks and begin deployment, obeying the orders of a man dressed in fatigues but wearing a beret instead of a helmet.
Hal Taggart had located his rifle just as the company had pulled into town, but the damn rats had scurried before he could sight down on them. The smelly things were rushing out through a hole in the wall between the grain sacks. Taggart had just had enough. Gun ready, he rushed out the grill’s back door and gave chase down Main Street in the rats’ trail.
“You fucking bastards!”
Taggart’s cry carried down Main Street, followed rapidly by his charging frame with gun cradled in his arms.
The rest happened so fast that it seemed not to be happening at all.
A pair of soldiers saw Taggart coming and leveled their guns at him. He slowed but didn’t stop; his sad eyes were on the rats, and he was aware of nothing else. He was still giving chase when both soldiers fired. A pair of staccato bursts, and Hal Taggart was tossed backward, midsection and apron drenched in blood, arms and legs twitching when he landed.
The rest of the soldiers turned their weapons on the townspeople who were standing in the street in shock. Fingers grasped for triggers, uncertain of what to do next as people began rushing about with no clear sense of purpose.
“Cease fire!” screamed the bereted leader. “Cease fire!”
The echoes of a few random shots sifted down Main Street. Somewhere glass shattered. Then came stunned silence as the people of Pamosa Springs became prisoners in their own town.
Part Two
Into the Labyrinth
Athens: Wednesday, noon
Chapter 10
IT WAS MID-AFTERNOON Wednesday before McCracken was settled in Athens. The journey had taken twenty taxing hours, thanks to a trio of plane changes deemed necessary in case Sundowner tried to have him followed.
He checked into a small hotel located in the center of the city’s modern section. The clerk spoke good enough English to help him ascertain that Kapo Stadipopolis, the antique dealer from whom Earnst had received the Atragon crystals, maintained his shop in the heart of the famed Monastiraki Square.
Blaine would head there as soon as he managed to get washed and changed.
Spring in the Mediterranean was traditionally warm, and once back in the streets he wore only a light jacket over his shirt to keep his shoulder holster concealed. He found the city of Athens to be a paradox, but a pleasant one. It blended the modern flavor, luxury, and sense of a national and commercial capital with the ancient traditions that provided the city its fame. From his hotel in Omonia Square, Blaine had intended to walk to Stadipopolis’s shop, but he had underestimated the distance and hailed a cab instead. The driver proceeded due south down Athena Street and deposited him in the heart of the Athens shopping district.
In effect, Monastiraki Square marked the beginning of Old Athens or the Plaka. The Square itself was formed by three intersecting streets lined with shops and open-air markets of every kind. As usual, it was bustling with activity. The hot sun beat down, but the shoppers seemed not to mind, some simply strolling, others negotiating with shopkeepers in search of the best possible bargain. Waiters in long white aprons struggled to keep up with the flow of the many patrons in and out of the various outdoor cafes. Merchants selling their wares out of boxes or platforms in the street called eagerly to tourists as they passed, changing languages as frequently as smiles.
According to the hotel clerk, Kapo Stadipopolis’s antique shop was located in the center of Pandrosos Street, and Blaine made his way toward it. He was feeling quite secure. No one could possibly know that he had gone to Greece, and he took considerable comfort in that.
Stadipopolis’s shop, called “Kapo’s,” was as simple as Earnst’s parlor had been lavish. It was wedged between two other buildings, one a fruit market and the other a bakery specializing in uniquely Greek creations. Blaine passed the shop twice from the outside and saw it was packed from floor to ceiling with artifacts at various prices, all labeled in both drachmas and dollars. There were voices coming from inside, a seller—Stadipopolis probably—arguing with a prospective buyer. Blaine entered and heard the slight tinkling of windchimes. There was little room to maneuver amid the clutter near the entrance, and he moved forward.
“Not a penny less, I tell you,” a curly-haired Greek with a thick mustache was insisting. “One hundred American dollars.”
“Fifty,” replied a well-dressed man with a woman tight by his side. McCracken felt he was trying to impress her with his negotiating ability.
The Greek held up a vase. “Mister, this is hundreds of years old. You want to go home and show off something authentic or go home and brag about how you talked a poor merchant into a bargain for something less? It’s a crime what you do to us. You think I won’t be able to sell this to the next person who walks through that door? You think I won’t?”
“All right,” the man relented, “seventy-five.”
“Hah! Seventy-five, he says. I pay eighty for this and he offers seventy-five like he’s doing me a favor. How are my children supposed to eat if I lose money on all my transactions? You have children perhaps?” he asked the woman.
“No,” she replied, slightly embarrassed.
“Well, I do. Seven of them. Each looks like their mother, thank God. I tell you this, I been married to her twenty wonderful years, since I was seventeen. You married that long?”
The couple said nothing.
“We start young here. In Greece, you start young with everything. Even business. I can sell this to you for less than what I paid under no circumstances. Nothing personal. The next man through the door will jump at it for one hundred, even one-twenty-five.” He noticed McCracken. “Hey you, come over here. What you think of this? Come, be honest… .”
Blaine walked over to the counter and squinted his eyes as he ran his fingers lightly over the vase. “Most impressive,” he noted professionally. “I’d say from the Hadrian period. Yes, the Ionic propylon markings definitely date it back to the second century A.D., give or take a hundred years. I’ll offer you five thousand American for it.”
The young couple were already moving for the door, shaking their heads and not offering good-byes. The door opened and closed. The windchimes tolled softly again.
The curly-haired Greek was shaking Blaine’s hand enthusiastically, eyes wide. “I tell you this, my friend. They say I know more history than anyone on the Square, but you know more even than me. I respect you, so I let you have this piece for only, well, I’m in a good mood, say two thousand American.”
“I made it up,” Blaine told him.
“Huh?”
“I doubt anything from the Hadrian period of Greece has ‘Made in Japan’ stamped on its bottom.”
Stadipopolis found himself foolishly turning the vase upside down as McCracken ambled toward an open case of “authentic” Greek artifacts demanding incredible prices.
“I tell you this, my friend,” the Greek said, following him out from behind the counter. “You cost me money a few minutes ago. You owe me for that. There is maybe something—”
“I’m not buying,” Blaine said as he rotated a small green dish in his hand. Then he turned to the Greek. “I’m selling.”
“As you can maybe see, my inventory is a bit overstocked.”
“What I have to sell won’t take up much room, Mr. Stadipopolis.”
The Greek’s expression turned apprehensive. McCracken moved back toward the counter, Kapo Stadipopoli
s right behind him.
“How you know me, American?”
“Only by reputation.”
“How come I don’t know you?”
“Because we haven’t been introduced, nor are we about to be.”
“I don’t buy from strangers, I tell you this.”
“Really?” said Blaine, placing the small piece of Atragon Sundowner had let him take on the counter top. “What a pity …”
Stadipopolis’ eyes bulged. His lips trembled, and his olive skin paled.
“Wh-wh-where? H-h-how?”
“America. Erich Earnst. That’s all you need to know. The rest of the questions are mine.”
The Greek didn’t seem to hear him. “Who you work for?” he demanded fearfully. “Who send you?”
“I told you no more questions. Tell me about the crystals.”
“Nothing to tell.”
“Earnst said you shipped them to him by accident, men requested their return after they had been stolen.”
“Earnst is still alive?”
“He wouldn’t have been, if not for me.”
Another couple, this one older than the last, came through the door. The sound of windchimes followed them.
“Go away!” Stadipopolis roared. “Closed!”
The couple exited as quickly as they had entered.
“I kept Earnst alive,” McCracken said, “and I’ll keep you alive too—if you cooperate.”
“What makes you think I am in danger?”
“Mostly that if you don’t cooperate, I’ll make it known on the streets that you sold these crystals to me this day. It’s not hard to figure that you’re scared of somebody. How long do you think it’ll be before word filters from Monastiraki Square to them about what you sold me?”
“No!” Stadipopolis pleaded, hands clutching for his face. “You can’t!”
“For reasons you can’t begin to understand, I can. And I will unless we talk.”
“Not here,” the Greek said, eyes darting. “I might be watched. Is possible.”
“Where? When?”
“Tonight. Ten o’clock at Kerameikos Cemetery. You know it?”
“I’ll find it.”
The Greek started to move away. Blaine grasped his arm in an iron grip. “Set me up, Kapo, and I’ll know it. The man you’re frightened of might be a match for me but then again he might not. I’m betting not. I’d hate to have to make Monastiraki Square poorer by losing you. Place just wouldn’t be the same again.” Then, in words spoken like ice, “Don’t call him, Kapo.”
“I wouldn’t! I couldn’t!”
Blaine nodded at him, satisfied, and started to turn for the door, pocketing his crystal again.
“No,” Stadipopolis said. “You must leave with something. Money must change hands. If I’m being watched, it would look strange if it didn’t.”
“Might look stranger if it did.”
“Please! Just to be safe.”
McCracken handed over a twenty-dollar bill and grabbed the much-disputed vase. “Got just the place for this… .”
“But—”
Blaine was on his way for the door. “Ten o’clock tonight, Kapo, in that cemetery. You set the rules. Just don’t break them.”
And the windchimes tumbled against each other once more.
Outside, across the street from Kapo’s, a legless beggar who had been pushing himself along on a skate-wheel platform stopped suddenly. His eyes had to be deceiving him. He had to get a closer look. He tried to better his view of the man who had just stepped out of the antique store, but the flow of pedestrian traffic was too thick, forcing the beggar to risk a quick slide through moving traffic in the street.
Pedestrians lurched aside and cars were brought to grinding halts. He reached the other side of the street and caught one glimpse of the shrinking figure, then pushed himself through the door of a fruit market. A customer and his bag went reeling. A basket of oranges toppled to the floor.
The beggar didn’t stop.
“Your phone, Andros!” he screamed when he was halfway across the floor. “Hand it to me quick!”
The befuddled proprietor pried the receiver from its hook and lowered it to the beggar.
“Now, dial this number! Come on, get ready!”
Andros dialed the number the beggar recited. The ringing started, stopped.
“I must speak with Vasquez,” the beggar told the man who answered.
Chapter 11
KAPO STADIPOPOLIS HUMMED to himself for distraction as a second minute ticked past ten o’clock. He’d been waiting as planned by the Tomb of Dionysios of Kollytos since five minutes of, and there was no sign of the American. Good. Maybe he wouldn’t show up. Stadipopolis wouldn’t be surprised if he was dead.
The Greek tried to light a cigarette but the stiff night breeze thwarted him. After a half dozen tries he gave up, returned to his humming, and wrapped his jacketed arms about himself to ward off the chill. Behind him the white stone bull, symbol of Dionysios, perched atop twin pillars. It seemed ready to pounce.
Stadipopolis kept humming, the only sound in the Kerameikos Cemetery.
“Boo,” whispered a voice in his ear as an iron finger poked him like a gun in the back.
Stadipopolis swung around in utter surprise. “You want to give me heart attack, American?”
“You were making enough noise to wake the dead.” Blaine glanced around him. “Literally.”
“You’re late,” the Greek managed, steadying himself.
“Hardly. Been here since just after eight. Had to make sure you weren’t planning anything.”
“You don’t trust me?” Stadipopolis seemed offended.
“I don’t trust anyone until they give me a reason to.”
“We must be quick.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
Blaine thought Kerameikos Cemetery a good choice for the meeting. It was more a testament to the past than the dead and was popular among tourists for good reason. The cemetery contained the excavated remains of the old Kerameikos quarter of Athens, along with monuments to great figures dating from the sub-Mycenean period to late antiquity. Within the excavated portions no two tombs were alike.
The cemetery was cut into sections by serpentine walkways which made it seem larger than it was. Just enough excavation had been performed to avoid clutter and promote atmosphere among the testaments to Greek history. The tomb of Dionysios was located due north from the Kerameikos Museum on the Pireos Street side. Just south of the gate through which McCracken had entered lay the Agora, the old market at the foot of the steep grassy hillside which led up to the famed Acropolis.
“You understand my meeting you might mean my death,” Stadipopolis said fearfully.
“And not meeting me would have assured it.”
The night was lit by a half moon, and the Greek moved back into the shadow cast by the ceramic bull atop the tomb.
“I want to know everything you do about the crystals,” Blaine told him. “And I want it from the beginning.”
“The beginning in this case is difficult to pin down. Before the dawn of civilization as we know it.”
“Spare me the history lesson, and let’s start with how you came to be in possession of the crystals.”
“They were stolen from a man of great power. He is called the Lion of Crete. He is mad, but nobody dares cross him.”
“What’s his name?”
“He goes by many. The closest to the truth is Megilido Fass.”
“So you stole the crystals from him and then shipped them to Earnst… .”
“No!” Stadipopolis insisted, drawing back against a pillar. “This I tell you, American, for the sake of my children, I would never dare cross a man like Megilido Fass. He has his own villa in the southwest of Crete, big as a town they say. People have been known to go there and never return. Boys mostly.”
“Boys?”
The Greek nodded reluctantly. “Wealth has its luxuries, among them being the ability t
o indulge in whatever … pleasure suits you at the time. Fass is free to do as he wishes. As I said, no one ever crosses him, and that includes the authorities.” He made a spitting motion. “Worthless pigs that they are. Corruption is their middle name in these parts.”
“Not just in these parts, Greek. All right, so it was Fass who was originally in possession of these crystals. Then he was robbed.”
Stadipopolis nodded. “On a dare, a foolish one. A young man whose family had been wronged by the heathen vowed revenge and was coaxed on by his friends. He intercepted a shipment from Fass bound for Morocco. The crystals were among it.”
“And where do you come in?”
“How do you say, American—that in this city I am known as a man who can move merchandise that might burn one’s hand. The foolish young man brought the stolen goods to me. I purchased them for a reasonable price, of course not knowing their source.”
“Of course.”
“Had I … well, no call for such speculating. To turn a profit and avoid entanglements, I wished to move the gems quickly. Through America, as always.”
“And Erich Earnst.”
“Exactly. The crystals were of special interest to me because I had never seen anything like them before… .”
“Just what Earnst said.”
“They were … mesmerizing.”
“Something obviously made you request that Earnst return them to you after you sent them along.”
“I tell you this, American. My dealings with Earnst over the years were never anything but profitable. He was a man of honor and integrity.”
“But that didn’t stop you from asking for the crystals back.”