by Neil Olson
The figure in the long coat with the quick, confident stride did not fit naturally with this crowd, Matthew noticed, well before the man reached him. Graying hair, a square, strong face, and a smile of the kind normally reserved for an old friend.
“Matthew. You are Matthew, yes?”
“Who are you?”
“Your godfather sent me.” The man held out his hand. “You can call me Risto.”
“Sent you to do what?”
He did not take the offered hand, and Risto withdrew it slowly, his smile wavering.
“To take you back to his house. He is too ill for the ceremony, but he very much wants your company tonight.”
“Why didn’t he call me?”
“He had hoped until the last moment to attend, but it has proved too much. You cannot be surprised at that if you have seen him recently.”
“What’s your connection?”
“Just a friend.”
“I see. Why don’t we call Fotis and discuss this?”
“He may not be well enough to do so.”
“He’s too ill to speak on the telephone?”
“We can try, of course.” Risto turned and looked out across the plaza with some consternation, and Matthew followed his gaze. Then the man’s strong arm was around Matthew’s shoulder and something dug hard into his ribs. “No trouble, please. The car is just this way.”
“What the fuck,” Matthew spat in English.
“Walk. You are quite safe, but you must come along.”
In fact they were already moving, Risto’s power propelling both of them toward the broad staircase down to the street. Matthew fell into step so as not to tumble down the stairs and breathed deeply to calm himself. Things were moving too fast once more. He needed to think clearly and act quickly, and he must by no means allow himself to be put into a car. As Risto looked up and down the avenue, Matthew dared a glance downward, and realized that it was a fair-sized candle being stuck into his rib cage.
They reached the sidewalk and moved toward the curb, where a small blue compact sat idling, a man at the wheel. Matthew pretended to stumble, and as he was pulled upright again, drove his elbow backward at Risto’s solar plexus. The hard resistance of bone on bone told him he had missed the target, but the bigger man grunted and his grip relaxed briefly.
Matthew broke free and wheeled about, swinging wildly, his fist catching the side of Risto’s head. He turned to move away, figures scattering on the sidewalk before him, but felt a hand on his jacket collar, then a fierce blow to his lower back, stunning his spine and kidneys. He began to slide to his knees, but in a moment Risto had him firmly around the shoulders again, forcing him painfully into the car’s backseat.
Face mashed against vinyl, Matthew could make no sense of the shouting that followed, nor of Risto’s sudden weight on top of him, driving the air from his lungs. A new voice gave sharp, clipped commands, the car lurched into motion. Then there was silence, except for some heavy breathing. As the weight shifted off him, Matthew squirmed up into a sitting position, flushed and disoriented, blood roaring in his ears. Risto was pushed up against him, leaning forward with his head on the back of the driver’s seat. Sotir Plastiris sat on the other side of him with a small pistol against Risto’s right temple. In front, a younger man in the passenger seat had a larger pistol up against the driver’s head, and the car raced and wove through the thin traffic on the avenue.
“Matthew, you are well?” Sotir asked with that odd mix of genuine concern and fierce insistence so peculiar to the native Greek.
“Yes.” His tight throat barely released the word, and he did not trust himself to say more without his voice cracking.
“Here,” Sotir said to the front seat, and his companion communicated a left turn to the driver, who obeyed. The car bottomed out on a narrow, cobbled lane and immediately reduced speed. They were in a rabbit’s warren of small streets and after several turns stopped dead in a short alley. The silence was even more intense with the engine off. Matthew’s senses, emerging from a thick gauze of fear, now seemed suddenly sharp, almost unbearable. He was aware of each man’s scent, every movement in the car, throats clearing, mouths exhaling short breaths. The driver was young and very frightened, sweat staining his collar. The passenger with the large pistol was young also, slightly bored-looking, with curly black hair and handsome features not unlike Sotir’s. One of the nephews, presumably, and they had been watching Matthew without his knowing it, probably the entire day. Andreas’ hand was in this, but Matthew could not bring himself to be offended.
Sotir reached inside Risto’s coat and after some fumbling around removed a small pistol, placing it inside his own jacket.
“Who?” he asked quietly. When there was no answer after several seconds, he struck Risto sharply on the head with his pistol, drawing blood, and Matthew reflexively looked away.
“Who?” Plastiris demanded a second time.
“Livanos,” Risto said.
“Taki Livanos?” Matthew asked, suddenly finding his voice.
“Yes.”
“Fotis’ nephew,” he explained to Sotir, who nodded.
“And what do you want with the boy here?”
“Just to bring him to the house,” Risto answered.
“You need a gun for that?”
“I always carry it.”
“You need to hit him and push him just to bring him to the house?”
“They said he would be suspicious, but I must get him there anyway.”
“Why?”
“How the hell should I know?”
Sotir struck him again, and Matthew bit down on his protest.
“Where is Livanos?”
“Gone. Into the mountains, I think, with the old man.”
“So what happens at the house?”
“We keep him there for a day or two. I don’t know why, they didn’t tell me.” Risto braced for another blow.
“That’s all?” Matthew asked. “And then you just let me go?”
“Yes,” Risto insisted, and Matthew believed him. Fotis merely wanted enough time to disappear. Evidently Sotir believed it too, because he did not strike the man again.
“The boy is protected. Don’t come near him. Tell Livanos.”
“I don’t intend to speak to that bastard again,” Risto sighed.
Matthew, Sotir, and his nephew got out of the car slowly and carefully, but the bewildered occupants clearly intended no more trouble. The nephew snapped open a ridiculously large knife and methodically punctured a tire, just to be on the safe side. Then the three of them made their way through the narrow lanes to Plastiris’ own vehicle. Matthew’s legs struggled to hold him up. Two knuckles were swollen on his right hand, and his lower back ached badly. The taste of fear would be in his mouth for days, yet he felt grateful to have escaped with so little harm, and stupid for not realizing how far above his abilities this game was being played. The nephew smiled at him with condescending sympathy.
“That was good, pretending to fall. But next time, hit him in the balls, not the chest.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“We’ll call your grandfather now,” Sotir said. “He will be worried.”
“Thank you. For looking after me like that.”
Plastiris waved the comment off.
“We were slow, but it is good we were there. Do you know where your godfather is?”
“No. Not at the moment, anyway. But I have a fair guess where he’s going.”
On the switchback road that climbed to Veria, Fotis was sure they were being followed. Taki laughed. This isn’t America, Uncle, there is only one road. Which was true, more or less; only one major road—narrow and winding—penetrated the mountainous heart of Macedonia. Yet something about the white Peugeot troubled the old man, the half-obscured license plate, the way it kept a perfect distance, even when Fotis made Taki slow down. Greeks did not drive so carefully.
He had Taki pull the black Mercury over at his favorite cha
pel, first making sure that two other cars were parked by the food stand across the long bend of road, beyond which the ground fell away to a landscape of beige hills spotted with dark vegetation. Hot and barren as Lebanon; not like the green hills of Epiros. From its little rise, creamy white in the dying sun, the chapel looked out over everything, a rocky cliff rising steeply behind it. The Peugeot stopped also. The driver bought a stick of souvlaki and a beer for himself, but nothing for the older man with him. The driver ate slowly, wandering back and forth from the cliff edge to the car, never once looking in Fotis’ direction, yet tarrying.
The Snake seemed not to be looking either, but saw all in his usual sidelong fashion. He spent a full ten minutes examining the small church, shut up at the moment, standing inside the tiny vestibule, out of the sun, while Taki paced like a panther and checked his watch. The road could be dangerous after dark, but Fotis had his mind on other dangers. At length, the young driver got back into the white car and sped quickly out of sight. Perhaps a coincidence after all, Fotis thought, but he made Taki wait another ten minutes before proceeding.
In the backseat, feet set widely to brace himself against the endless turns, Fotis reviewed his documents. Three passports, Greek, Turkish, American. He had not traveled under a false passport in many years and probably did not need to now. He could have been out of the country hours ago on a commercial flight from Athens or Salonika, instead of getting carsick in these wretched hills. Yet there was too great a chance of being picked up by impatient American investigators in New York, or by their counterparts here. The fake ID might get him through, but his face was on file with every security bureau on both sides of the water, and if he was caught with a bad passport, his troubles would increase immeasurably. The Greeks especially would welcome a reason to prosecute him. Fotis sighed, then shook his head at the image of such an unlikely security net waiting to catch this tired old thief. The Greeks were too sloppy, and the Americans far too preoccupied with larger threats. Nevertheless, his caution had saved him more than once, and he did not see abandoning it this late in life.
The sun was low, and he regretted the delay, which would force Taki to navigate the winding road into the Kozani valley in twilight. Fotis would take a small plane from the airstrip outside Kozani, to Montenegro, or direct to Brindisi in Italy, whichever Taki’s friend Captain Herakles thought best. Then a commercial flight from Rome, on some unlikely airline, under the guise of a Turkish businessman. That should do the trick. It was about getting to Rome. He would have to trust the brave Captain Herakles, who probably had never been more than a sergeant. Herakles, how sweet. These poor fellows, in their forties or fifties now, with their secret codes and brotherhoods and their heroic noms de guerre, they longed for the old days. The days when their brig-andage might have had a patriotic justification, fighting Turkish overlords or the German occupation or even the communists. Instead they had the black market, smuggling goods and people, bribing officials, stockpiling weapons—for what? The closest to war they had come was Cyprus, when the idiot colonels had utterly failed to act. How Fotis could have fallen in with that group he no longer understood, and it had cost him his home-land. Andreas had been wiser than he on that matter.
He was drawn out of his reverie by the Mercury’s steady acceleration, dangerous in these turns, and he noted Taki’s tense hands on the wheel, his eyes shifting constantly to the rearview mirror.
“What?” Fotis demanded, twisting about in his seat.
“Motorcycle. Coming up quick.”
The old man heard the engine now—a deep, shifting growl—and just caught sight of a vehicle disappearing into the car’s blind spot. Then the road uncurled into a rare straightaway and they were suddenly there, right outside Fotis’ window, two helmeted figures pressed together on a large motorbike, the one in back pointing something.
The doors of the Mercury were steel-plated, thanks to Taki’s diligence. Bulletproof glass was harder to come by, and tinted glass only drew attention, so they were quite exposed. Instinct said to dive away from the window, but even across the seat he could be seen. Instead, Fotis moved the opposite way, sliding half into the footwell and pressing himself against the door, fedora knocked astray.
Both rear windows exploded together, the shot passing straight through, and the car lurched wildly as Taki ducked behind the wheel. A rain of glass fell on Fotis’ hat and coat. Large caliber, .45 maybe. Motorcycle. Was it November 17, a political assassination? It fit their style precisely, but they were a long way from Athens.
The motorcycle roared ahead to avoid getting squeezed in a turn, and Fotis could see no more, but imagined the passenger twisting about on the seat, trying to get off another shot. He heard Taki fumbling with the glove box, swearing under his breath. Wind whipped through the car. Fotis was calm. Later, if he lived, he would be frightened, but he was calm now.
“Taki,” he tried to shout, his lungs compressed by his contorted position. “Pull over, make them come back at us.” His nephew would have a clear shot from a stationary position then, and the steel door for cover. If the idiot could get the damn glove box open.
The wind swept his words away, and Taki accelerated. Trying to run them down, which would not work. Fotis struggled to get back up in the seat, while the muffled ring of shots sounded ahead of them. One, two, three. There was the punching crack of safety glass as the windshield turned white, and Taki’s head snapped back, spraying the roof with blood.
Fotis grabbed the headrest before him as the car decelerated rapidly, and used the sudden shift in momentum to launch himself between the front seats. He could see nothing, but pulled the wheel right, away from the hundred-foot drop to boulders and the rusted remains of carelessly piloted vehicles, and toward the upward slope of the hill. The lesser of two evils. A slight uphill grade slowed the car’s motion further before it left the road, banging hard into a shallow culvert and coming up immediately against the slope. Loose dirt and rocks rattled down over the hood and roof. The engine died.
Fotis found himself looking up at the blood-spattered roof, his torso crammed beneath the dashboard, feet sprawled across the passenger seat, with no memory of how he had arrived there. The left side of his face stung, and there was a ringing in his ear, as if he had been slapped hard. He could not feel his left arm. The right one seemed to be working. His feet moved, but there was pain somewhere in his legs, or—God forbid it—his hip. None of it mattered greatly, as he was sure to be shot where he lay. He could make out Taki’s still form draped over the steering wheel, could smell blood and the sharp stink of frightened men.
Strangely, nothing happened at once. It was a full minute before he heard a car engine, and dared to hope that a passerby might have run off the assassins. Generally, these fellows were not well paid enough to make it worth killing bystanders. Then he remembered the Peugeot. Voices approached, loud and nervous. Fotis felt their anxiety in his fingertips. Despite the late hour, another car might come by at any moment. It had been unsporting of him not to go over the cliff, to make their job harder like this. They half-circled the Mercury as if it might bite them, unable to get at the passenger door because of the slope, unable to see through the splintered windows. On impulse, Fotis reached up and popped the glove compartment. The nine-millimeter tumbled out and struck him in the head. He cursed, but gripped the pistol firmly and felt the annoying adrenal rush of returning hope. He had been ready to give it all up a few moments before. What was wrong with that? Why must he fight so hard to keep hold of this miserable, threadbare life? It was not a question for the moment. Without his left hand free, he could not make sure that the first round was chambered, so he would have to go on faith.
Someone pulled at the driver’s door, finally wrenching it open a few feet. Fotis could not see clearly, but could sense whoever it was checking on Taki, noting the upside-down form in the passenger seat.
“Dead?” a voice asked from several meters away.
“Very close,” returned a younger voice,
halfway inside the car. Tight, barely controlled, had never seen a head wound before, no doubt. “Now what the hell are we going to tell them?”
“What about the other one?”
“I can’t see, he’s on the floor. There’s blood everywhere. Holy Mother, what a mess.”
“Pull the driver out.” The older voice was close at hand now.
“He’s wedged in pretty tight.”
“Get out of the way, I’ll do it. Go in the back, and over the seat.”
Now the older one was wrestling with Taki’s bulky frame while the younger one fought with the rear door. Fotis shifted his torso and realized that some feeling had come back into the left arm. With great discomfort, he pulled himself partway back onto the passenger seat, just as Taki was dragged out into the road, and as the younger one freed the back door. The Peugeot driver, definitely. He saw Fotis now, oddly arranged across both seats, bent over the gun as if he were holding his ribs. The Snake let out a pitiful moan, only half faked.
“He’s alive,” the young one shouted, leaning forward between the seats.
Closer. There. Fotis swung the pistol up as fast and hard as he could manage, catching the young man beneath the chin with a tooth-snapping blow, sending him reeling onto the backseat. Then he shifted his attention to the open driver’s door.
The older man, a hollow-eyed, mustachioed brute in a dark suit, dropped Taki’s body and reached inside his jacket.
“Do not,” Fotis commanded, the nine-millimeter leveled at him. He would have shot both of them without warning but for the fact that they had not tried to kill him at once. They might be government, Andreas’ men, anyone. Too slowly, the big oaf pulled a blocky .45 from his shoulder holster and took aim. Fotis fired twice, then a third time as the man fell, every shot hitting. The sound was less deafening than he expected. Nice weapon; easy trigger, very little recoil. He had not used a gun in years, had thought himself beyond that place in his life. Mustache rolled heavily into the culvert and was still. The smell of cordite filled the car.
