20
The Marble Grotto
It was a good thing I’d brought the headlamp. As the stair spiraled down, the darkness became complete. I tried to assure myself with the fact that the stair should be easy enough to find again once I’d located Shane, immobilized his abductors, and fled back here.
Yeah, I know that sounds just about as probable as when I’d told my third grade teacher that the hedge trimmer had eaten my homework. But that particular tall tale had actually been true, so perhaps my valiant rescue would turn out to be an improbable reality as well.
I stumbled to a stop at the bottom of the twisting stair.
It ended at the gaping maw of a long dark tunnel of twisting, white marble shot through with bits of limestone and a dark mottling of lichen.
I couldn’t help a small shudder.
The dark grotto was quite cool, and I had only worn a tank with a thin men’s dress shirt pulled on over top. I’m sure the shiver had nothing to do with the long stretch of darkness that I had just decided to traverse.
My fingers trailed across the stone as I took that first step forward. Other travelers must have done the same, for the ancient marble was worn and smooth. My hand grazed a depression in the rock. Something moved beneath my fingers. Huh? I slid my hand back across the stone.
There it was again. I pressed down with my thumb. Would a different tunnel open? One with friendly torches or a smattering of handy glow worms to light my steps. Hmmm…I was pretty sure that glow worms were from South America.
But it didn’t hurt to try. A deep, grinding echo of stone upon stone consumed the space behind me. I turned just in time to see the marble stair spiral out of sight beneath a thick rock door.
So that was what that button did. Apparently, it did indeed hurt to try.
I mashed down on the depression again, hoping to see the stair reappear. Nothing. I smoothed my hands against the cool, white walls hoping to find a different depression that returned the mysterious stair for my climbing pleasure.
Wherever it was, the “open sesame” button was not nearly as easy to stumble upon as the “ha ha, let’s trap her in the dark” button. After several minutes, I realized that nothing would be gained by scratching and pounding at the impossible wall of stone. Only one option lay open to me.
The black tunnel beyond.
Winding and damp, the tunnel grew colder the deeper I traveled into the mountain. I was pretty sure that I walked beneath the Acropolis itself. There were other passageways, but each held a massive oak door sealing off the way and insuring my commitment to the largest corridor.
Whoever Shane’s abductors might be, they were not the first ones to use this deep marble warren.
I wasn’t expecting it when the way finally ended. One moment I was slogging along, head down, one hand trailing along the side of the tunnel. The next, a golden wash of light filled the corridor, and I stumbled into a vast grotto of white marble.
A cathedral of natural stone with an arched ceiling that towered up a hundred feet above me and the flicker of wavering torches casting a warm buttery light upon the pale stone. Carpets in rich reds, sunset blues, and vibrant forest greens covered the floor. Oil paintings hung upon the cool, stone walls.
The smell of coffee and fresh bread rings, croissants, and pound cakes with jam drew me forward. Couches were scattered throughout the massive cavern, along with fine European furniture pieces, urns, and statues that made me think of the homes of the mighty super villains in comic books and cartoons, not a remote cave system.
Unfortunately, the cavern was also filled with a smattering of well-dressed individuals chatting on the couches and filling china plates with buttery breakfast breads.
However, no one had seen me yet.
I eased along the wall on my left toward a marble pedestal that held aloft the nicely preserved remains of a fat white cat.
My own stuffed cat felt heavy and awkward in the fashionable bag slung across my shoulder. Even though I’d paid a fool’s fortune for the adorable bag, a dead cat is still a dead cat and can manage to wreck even the most tasteful ornamentation.
Chrysanthemum was an embarrassing accessory, to say the least, but I could see Shane nibbling at something from a small china plate on the other side of the room, and I refused to leave him to his fate. I could endure the shame of carrying her for a few more minutes.
Although, considering the fact that he’d been fed and apparently offered coffee as well, his kidnapping might have been a good deal more pleasant than my fabulous rescue.
I managed to pick up the cat before anyone in the massive cavern noticed my appearance.
But that small accomplishment did Shane little good.
There was nowhere to run with my furry acquisition, and he was all the way across the room lounging on an antique couch. What on earth was he doing lounging when there was desperate fleeing to be done?
I bent over the cat, making sure that all was in order before stuffing the other cat into the bag next to Chrysanthemum. Then I bolted.
That was a mistake. Movement catches the eye, and evil henchmen materialized from the buffet table and artful clusters of sofas like worms rising from the ground after a soaking rain. It didn’t take long for three of the cat-napper’s largest minions to corner me over by the table of sweet breads.
Shane jerked to his feet.
Our eyes met.
He took a step forward, but a cuff on his ankle yanked him to a stop.
I snatched a little paper doily with a gooey chunk of baklava perched in the center and popped it into my mouth before they could grab me. Hey, if I was to die, I would do it with the decadent taste of Greek pastries on my lips. I snatched up another and addressed the room.
“Let the taxidermist go, or I’ll smear honey laden dessert all over your cat bomb! You are never supposed to wash a stuffed cat. So give Shane two plates of pastries and send him over nice and slow if you wish to remain un-thwarted.” That sounded tough and confident…right?
I pulled the cat out of the bag and waved the baklava in a threatening manner.
Where was the man in the suit?
Shane jumped forward dragging the couch with him. He started to shout something.
A thick arm slid around my throat.
The man in the suit stepped out from behind the buffet table, a plate of pastries in hand.
Whichever minion had grabbed me remained where he was, oozing menace with silent eloquence.
“My, my, Miss Gianakos. You are more resourceful than I imagined. Too bad the breakfast pastries were so distracting.”
Hmmm…apparently both evil masterminds and ferocious minions frequented buffet tables between their heinous crimes.
I had neglected to scan the buffet line before making my move. Perhaps if I had spent less time scarfing down baklava and more time peering around corners for danger, things would have gone differently. I sighed and stuffed that final bit of pastry into my mouth. If I had to go down, why go down starving?
I had barely swallowed the sweet, honey-laced confection when the man in the suit snatched the fluffy, white cat from my hands.
Then his henchman squeezed me from behind, making my breaths come in tiny, aching squeaks.
“And you tried to bargain with the wrong cat.” Shane’s kidnapper smiled as he pulled the bag off my shoulder and walked both cats over to where the first had been displayed. He glanced at the small black dot on his cat’s nose and settled both animals on the pillar for display. “There, a near matching set, and a thousand delightful possibilities.”
My attacker hustled me across the cavern floor and stopped next to Shane’s couch. He bent and snapped a cuff to my ankle and the other end to Shane’s.
As I blinked back a wave of black sparkles from my vision, I noted that Shane’s other leg was still cuffed to the couch despite the fact that he had heaved it several feet across the stone floor.
Great, we wouldn’t be going anywhere very fast doing the three man race an
d dragging a large piece of furniture.
Shane gave me a small smile.
I swayed. My throat ached, and I couldn’t quite get enough air.
Shane took my hand and pulled me down on the couch beside him.
I closed my eyes and let my head fall against his shoulder. I had already left the small card containing the phone number of my dream dentist behind. There was no reason to keep Shane at a distance now, and no time. I snuggled closer. This might be the last pleasant experience of my life, and I intended to enjoy the peaceful moment, no matter how brief.
“Miss Gianakos, I am grateful. You have proved incredibly entertaining and managed to bring me the leverage I needed, all in one fell swoop.” The suit bent and kissed my hand. “My name is Absyrtus Lasko, shipping tycoon, art collector, and lover of my country. Let me explain what your impetuous actions have made possible.”
Mr. Lasko sat down on the loveseat opposite us and motioned for coffee and sweets to be served.
Thankfully, my throat was feeling better, and we were allowed to partake. I had a feeling that Absyrtus Lasko’s story would be a long one.
“From 1801 to 1812, Thomas Bruce, the 7th Earl of Elgin, used his position as the British Ambassador to Ottoman held Greece, to perpetuate a terrible crime against my country. He removed half of the remaining sculptures from the Parthenon and had them shipped away to Great Britain, never to return. Honorable Greeks have argued for the release of these national treasures, to no avail. Today, that wrong will be righted. You and your young taxidermist will be the agents of change upon an impossible, international standstill.”
This didn’t sound good at all.
“Tonight the curator of the British museum will be presented with a gift of goodwill. His beloved cat, who died suddenly last week during his vacation in Athens, preserved to ease the sorrow from his heart.
“Since I’m sure neither of you wishes to see the other killed before your very eyes, you shall willingly attend tonight’s gala and present our little gift. I promise you this, if the bomb is placed in the curator’s hands without incident, I will let both of you live. I owe you that much.
“For the curator’s successor has agreed to return the Elgin Marbles to their proper place in exchange for his position of power.”
I looked at Shane.
Our eyes met.
He reached up to brush his thumb across my cheek.
I was crying.
“I’m sorry, Jack.” He said. “You shouldn’t have come for me.” He pulled me close, his breath warm against my hair as he whispered in my ear. “They can’t make us do anything we don’t want. Don’t worry about me.” Shane bent and kissed me then.
It was so sweet and gentle that I melted against him as though I were made of wax and molded to fit his arms. I let my hand slide around to the base of his neck and leaned closer to savor the taste of his kiss.
Shane gently ended the embrace and then settled me under his arm so I was leaning back against his chest. I felt his heart beating, slow and steady against my back. The warm weight of his arm around me eased the chill of the tunnels from my body. I wanted to sink into his arms and just let the insanity of this whole catnapping fiasco blaze past me and dissipate like sea mist under the incessant Mediterranean sun. Instead, I closed my eyes and gathered my nerve, heart pounding, hands shaking with pent up adrenaline.
I pulled in a deep breath and sat up, meeting Mr. Absyrtus Lasko’s eyes.
“I’ll do it.”
21
The Gala at the Stathatos Mansion
Dressed to kill…um…literally, Shane and I were dropped off by limousine in front of the Stathatos Mansion the next evening at seven.
The gown Absyrtus Lasko had provided was exquisite. The form fitting bodice had required a corset and two of Mr. Lasko’s strongest minions to ratchet me into the constricting garment. Then silver ribbons crisscrossed the back as though their delicate embrace had somehow created the constricting effect. It was worth the pain.
The olive satin wrapped my suddenly implausibly thin waist and then fell to the floor in a grand excess of fabric. Tiny silver braids of ribbon pulled the massive skirt into small bunches accented by a miniature bouquet of silver roses at each gather. I wore silver opera gloves, strappy silver heels, and antique silver ear clips. Covered in delicate roses, the ear clips curled around my ears, embracing them from lobe to crest.
I had never had the preparations for a formal event go so smoothly.
If only I hadn’t been expected to gift the British curator with an exploding cat, I would have been giddy over the gown’s effect upon my recently bedraggled person.
Shane’s flannel had been confiscated by the grim-faced limo driver, and as he offered me his arm, I was startled at how sophisticated the man looked in a tux. He had washed and shaved and smelled of olive oil and lemons. His formerly rumpled hair curled at the base of his neck in a way that made me want to reach out and twine my fingers through it. He seemed taller somehow, and when I slid my trembling hand onto his proffered arm, he smiled down at me and winked.
He was much calmer than I was.
How could that be? Guarded constantly, we had not gotten a chance to talk. He had no idea about my ridiculous plan. Could I save the British curator, expose the evil art enthusiast, and avoid getting Shane splattered into a million gory little pieces?
Apparently, he thought so.
I smiled up at him, tightened my grip on the stuffed cat, and concentrated on not puking all over my delicious gown.
The Stathatos mansion had been converted into a modern museum in 1986. The first floor housed the Cycladic collection, the second floor contained ancient Greek art, the third Ancient Cypriot art, and the fourth floor held a display of everyday objects from antiquity.
Tonight’s gala would benefit the purchase of relics owned by private collectors around the world with the intent of bringing them home to Greece. Inviting the British curator was a subtle hint concerning the Elgin Marbles.
But Absyrtus Lasko intended to take this far beyond subtlety, and Shane and I were his weapons of change.
I clacked up the stairs on Shane’s arm.
The Stathatos mansion was a stunning example of Neoclassical architecture, built in 1895 by the Saxon-Greek architect Ernst Ziller. The entry way was a great oval balcony held aloft by tall, white columns.
Shane led me beneath the main arch and into the elegant museum where our unsuspecting victim awaited.
My hands felt damp inside my gloves as I glanced past the art displays, hoping to see the police officers who were supposed to be present. Only ball gowns and tuxedos met my gaze.
The floors were mainly gray marble swirled with white, although some rooms were less grand, with floors of polished wood of differing hues or even a dull matte gray material that allowed the artwork to take center stage.
The artwork ranged from simple, faceless figurines of stone to elaborate pottery with sparing athletes painted bold across the ancient clay.
A tuxedoed attendant with broad shoulders and massive, scarred hands handed Shane a thick, glossy booklet featuring a number of pieces that the museum wished to purchase as well as the order of events for the evening. One item was circled in red.
The British curator would address the crowd in ten minutes, right before the silent auction.
Shane spread the page flat in front of me and pointed to the activity scheduled right before the curator’s address. Dancing.
“May I?” He led me toward the center of the room where there were less exhibits to hinder our movement.
“Now?”
“Come on, Jack. Since you chose to accept this assignment, I might as well enjoy it.” He tugged the cat from my arms and set it on a wooden chair. Then Shane hitched me a little tighter against him and murmured into my ear. “You do have a plan, right? Because you don’t strike me as the kind of girl who would allow a little bit of peer pressure to push her into murder.”
We twirled across the m
arble floors, his hand on my waist and his forehead pressed against mine as he held me close.
“Threatening to blow us up is a little more than peer pressure.”
“Same idea.” He turned me slowly allowing my massive gown plenty of room then pulled me close again. He grinned and dipped me over his arm as the song faded to a close.
I had never been dipped before, and I must admit that a little electric thrill slid down my spine like the gentle sting of hailstones on a stormy winter day.
“Where did you learn to dance?” To be fair, I should have explained my plan, and I would have, but his utter confidence on the dance floor rattled me. Were there secret taxidermist balls in the backwoods of Montana?
He grinned. “Marines. Didn’t you know, Jack? The best thing about being a Marine has always been the dancing.”
Interesting. I had heard about the annual Marine Balls. Apparently, the military demanded their men be prepared for both fighting and flirting. Handy, that. I enjoyed a few more twirls before pulling Shane’s head down close and whispering against his ear. “All we have to do is find a policeman. I’ve—”
The orchestra faded into silence, and a small stooped man with black hair and a hawk nose stepped up to the podium.
I gaped at him, rushed in an instant to a long ago memory. I was ten. It was my first summer with Ya-Yá, and we were bringing home a white Persian kitten. This man had been there. He’d been younger, of course. His shoulders had been less stooped, his face less worn, his eyes just a little sterner and more clear. But it had been the museum curator that day, there beside Ya-Yá, picking up a white kitten of his own.
What were the odds? Any white Persian would have been easy to mistake for Chrysanthemum. But a full sister, no wonder the storage guy had mixed them up. I could barely tell Petunia and Chrysanthemum apart, and I’d been tip-toeing around the cats every summer for years.
The giant in the tux handed me a champagne flute and the cat. Apparently, he was willing to let us dance but would not deliver the cat himself. He’d stayed close during the music, too close for us to escape an explosion.
Athens Ambuscade Page 9