by Kim Baldwin
Without an advanced degree, he had limited options. He wasn’t cut out to be a waiter, cab driver, or construction worker. If sacrificing sex meant he could at least have a place to eat, sleep, and live without burdening his family, then that was fine with him. Here, all that was expected of him was to do some gardening work, help with visitors, and dedicate the rest of his day to prayer. The prayer part was easy—he’d perfected that even before he ever left home. But now, although he had enough to eat, a roof over his head, and was no longer a financial drain, his family was eating out of trash cans.
Monks were supposed to cut all ties with family once they were ordained, and he’d managed to comply with that rule until a few months ago. When he’d heard about how the deteriorating economy had driven thousands to ruin and utter paucity, he’d called home to learn the worst. He had to do something to save them, and desperation mixed with fear had brought him to this unfathomable decision. Would he be damned for it? Maybe, but at least he’d go knowing that he had saved his family.
The man finished buttoning the robe and placed the hat on his head. “Map and key,” the stranger said in English.
Reluctantly, Antonis handed both over. He’d spent hours on the map. The first version was a detailed layout of the entire tunnel maze beneath the monastery, but he’d scaled that down significantly in the version he gave the man, which contained just enough information to lead the thief to the secret underground chapel that held the icon.
“He take you.” Antonis pointed to the donkey.
The man pocketed the map and key and jumped on the donkey. He looked up at the stony, steep incline for several seconds but didn’t seem at all concerned, or at least didn’t show it if he was. “You get your money when I get back,” he said in a low voice, still staring up at his destination, then kicked the donkey forward.
Antonis understood he’d have to wait there until the man returned with the promised treasure.
What would happen to his family if the man got caught or couldn’t find it?
The cool night breeze off the sea brought a chill to his sweat-soaked torso, and he hugged himself to keep warm. Forty-five minutes passed and still the stranger did not return. The monks would be up in another hour or so to gather for the eight-hour liturgical service that began their day. “I should give myself up,” Antonis mumbled to himself. “So wrong. What have I done? God would have protected and eventually provided for my family.” He grasped his hair in frustration with one hand. “What have I done?” There had to be a way to stop this. He paced some more, then stood and stared out at the sea, mesmerized by the sound of the waves against the rocks.
“Your key,” the man whispered in his ear.
Father Antonis had never heard the mule or the thief’s approach. He closed his eyes. “Did you find it?” he asked without turning around.
The man dangled a satchel at the monk’s side. “Let’s go.”
“Go where?”
“To get you your money. It’s in the boat.”
“No…I…I don’t want it,” he stuttered. “I don’t want the money. I don’t want any part in this. I need you to give me the Theotokos.”
The man laughed. “Yeah, that’s gonna happen.” He poked something hard between the monk’s shoulder blades. “Move.”
“No. I said, I—”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, this is a gun in your back, stupid.”
Antonis froze. “I…no…” He was pushed forward so roughly he stumbled on the rocks.
“Move, for fuck’s sake.” The thief grabbed Antonis by the back of his robe and dragged him to the boat. “Get in.”
“But why?”
The thief sighed loudly. “Just get the fuck in.” He pushed Antonis so hard he practically landed headfirst in the boat. “I hope that hurt, black-robe motherfucker.” He untied the small craft and pushed it away from the rocks before he jumped in.
Antonis rubbed his head as he sat up. “What are you doing?”
“Taking you for a ride.”
“This wasn’t the deal.”
The man shrugged. “So?” He grabbed the oars and pulled them away from shore, the boat rocking unsteadily in the choppy waves.
Father Antonis tried to stand up. “I—”
The last thing he saw was the oar coming at his head.
He didn’t know how long he’d been out, but when he woke, his hands and feet were tied and the Holy Mountain was a mere dark outline in the far distance. He wanted to struggle but knew there was no point. Death was near and he deserved it. Antonis looked up at the stars. “Bad will come to those who try to move the Theotokos, and…” He looked at the satchel. “And all this is my fault, so I must die.”
“Them’s the breaks, Father.” The man grabbed Antonis and pulled him over to the side of the boat.
The monk lifted his head to the sky. “I’m sorry. Please, forgive me.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m sure there’s a special hell for priests and shit.”
Chapter Two
Southwestern Colorado
Next day
Montgomery “Monty” Pierce knocked twice on Joanne Grant’s office door before entering, though no one was around and the entire campus by now knew they lived together. Old habits and all that, he supposed.
Joanne sat behind her desk chatting on the phone, but she smiled and waved him in. From her side of the conversation, he quickly surmised that she was counseling one of this year’s recent graduates about what specialty they should choose. In addition to the usual subjects taught at all American high schools, EOO students gained skills they would need as agents in the field: hand-to-hand combat, proficiency in all types of weapons, lock-picking, and much more.
Monty closed the door behind him and kissed Joanne on the top of her head before taking a seat in one of the chairs opposite. While he waited, he plucked a framed photo off her desk and studied the faces of the 1968 graduating class of the Elite Operatives Organization. The three honor students who would go on to lead the EOO as its Governing Trio were scattered among the faces. He was the strapping young man in the front row, his blond hair still thick and lush then and much longer than he remembered. But they had to fit in everywhere, and those were the days of Haight-Ashbury and the Rolling Stones.
David Arthur, the EOO’s Director of Training, was even more unrecognizable with his long hair, since he’d sported his copper-colored crew cut for at least the last thirty years. He’d kept his same athletic build, however, though now in his sixties, while Monty’s had deteriorated as soon as he left the field for his administrative desk job.
He could pick out Joanne with ease since he’d had a crush on her even then, though she had undergone the greatest transformation of any of them. She’d fleshed out even more than he had over the years, and the long, ebony hair of her youth was now a short white pixie cut. But in his mind, she grew more beautiful by the day.
He skimmed over the other faces in the photograph. Three of their classmates had been killed in action on the job, and two others were still teaching at the campus. The rest had long ago retired and moved away, and Monty wondered what had become of them. Had they kept their secrets even as they married and had children? Did they ever miss the extreme challenges and adrenaline rushes that came with being an ETF—a member of their Elite Tactical Force? And most of all, he wondered, had their unorthodox upbringing impacted how well they could adjust to a normal life outside?
He, like every other EOO op but one, had been adopted by the organization when he was just a child. Monty was the brightest six-year-old at the Oslo orphanage. They’d found David in Belfast and Joanne in Sydney the same year.
“Reminiscing again?” Joanne asked.
He’d been so absorbed by the photo he hadn’t heard her hang up the call. “You know, we should expand the anniversary dinner this year. Put out a call to all former ops. Might be fun to see who shows up.” They always celebrated the founding of the ultra-secretive organization with a big feast and
celebration for the current staff and student body, but they’d never before included those who’d retired from their service.
“What’s gotten into you, Monty?” Joanne asked in a teasing voice. “Ever since your big field trip you’ve been one big sentimental mushball.”
He smiled. “That’ll be the day.” But that assessment had a lot of truth. Maybe he was getting too soft for the job. He couldn’t let personal feelings and attachments influence the choices he made, since most involved putting their agents into life-and-death situations.
Before Joanne could argue the point, his cell phone went off. The caller ID said Private Number, a rare occurrence. To most of the world, the EOO didn’t exist. Though it took jobs for numerous governments and organizations, to handle issues that couldn’t be addressed by normal law enforcement, most of their contacts had only the main switchboard number, which was answered with a generic, “How may I assist you?” He’d given his private cell only to their senior ETFs and a few others at very high levels of influence and power.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Pierce, this is Archbishop Giorgos Manousis. I am Protepistate of the Holy Mountain of Athos in Greece.”
“How did you get this number?”
“From Cardinal Angelo Bertone.”
Monty sat back in the leather chair. Bertone, his contact at the Vatican, wouldn’t have readily shared his number without an important reason. “How can I help you?”
“I’m calling in regard to the Theotokos.”
“I’m sorry, but I have no idea what that might be.”
“Of course you don’t,” Manousis answered. “No one does. It is a very holy and clandestine icon.”
“I see. I take it it’s gone missing.”
“How do you—?”
“You wouldn’t be on the phone with me otherwise.”
“Yes, of course.” The archbishop hesitated. “It was stolen yesterday.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t misplaced?”
“Quite. The secure chapel where it was held was broken into. And Father Antonis, one of our monks who was apparently involved, was discovered dead. A fisherman found his body this morning off the coast, a gunshot wound to his head.”
“How do you know he was involved?” Monty asked.
“We found an unregistered cell phone among his things and drawings of the tunnels that lead to the icon.”
“Led to the icon.”
Manousis hesitated. “Yes, of course.”
“And you have no idea who else might be involved?”
“All we know is that Father Antonis had something to do with it.”
“And dead men don’t talk.” Monty grabbed a pen and notepad off Joanne’s desk. “My guess is the monk was either blackmailed, threatened, or bribed.”
“And whoever did any or all of the above killed him to make sure he didn’t eventually get a bout of guilt and confess,” the archbishop replied.
“Sounds about right. Either way, the monk was their insider. The cell phone, drawings of tunnels in his quarters.” Monty jotted down the particulars.
“Father Antonis was one of only five monks who had a key that led to the icon. A key that is now missing,” the archbishop said. “But knowing all that still does not help us find who is behind this or where the icon is.”
Monty cleared his throat. “You do realize that relics, artifacts, and the like are not our business. You should contact ICAR, the International Centre for Asset Recovery.”
“And therein lies the problem,” Manousis replied. “The icon is a hidden treasure, unknown to practically anyone. It was never insured because that would mean having to register it.”
“You’re not going to get a dime back.”
“It’s not about the money, because it’s literally priceless. The Theotokos is…” There was silence on the other end. “Priceless,” he repeated. “Hundreds of years old and…”
“And?”
“Miraculous, Mr. Pierce.”
“Hmm.” Monty was skeptical of any religion or mumbo jumbo that came with it, so he didn’t ask for further explanation. “So, it was never registered, it has magical powers, and for that reason it was kept a guarded secret. But now that it’s gone you can’t report it stolen to the authorities but desperately want it back.”
“Exactly. And aside from that, we do not want to advertise that it’s possible to enter the Holy Mountain and steal the—”
“Icon.”
“It is so much more than just an icon, Mr. Pierce.”
“I’m sure you think so, Mr. Manousis.”
“Consider, we’re talking about a country that at this point has nothing to lose,” the archbishop explained. “They’re three generations in debt and overtaxed to the extreme. Thirty percent are unemployed, and scores are bankrupt or have lost their homes and are starving. The suicide rate is climbing by the day. Not four years ago, Greeks lived like kings, so we’re talking angry, desperate people who lost everything overnight. Desperation and anger will make people do crazy things.”
“You’re saying you’re afraid that mobs will show up demanding artifacts to help pay their bills,” Monty said.
“If threatening a monk is all it takes to get in and steal priceless items, then yes.”
“Are you sure he was threatened?”
“No, but…he was found dead. If he had been bought, he’d probably still be alive and wealthy.”
“I see.” Monty was skeptical. “This icon can’t be such a secret if someone outside the Holy Mountain knew enough about it to have it stolen.”
“Its existence is top secret and virtually unheard of outside the mountain, with the exception of the Vatican and a select few.”
“Select few?”
“We’ve had inquiries from private collectors whose money could buy them anything.”
“Even a devout monk.”
“Perhaps, but I don’t think Father Antonis would—”
“I think you overestimate him. He was human, after all, and if you do a background check, I’m sure you’ll find dire financial issues. Maybe his own or his family’s, but either way, you can bet they used that to bribe him. I don’t think they killed him because they couldn’t pay up. I think they killed him so he wouldn’t talk.”
The archbishop was silent for a long while.
“Are you still there?” Monty had felt tired all day and was growing impatient with this story of stolen icons and miraculous relics. “Father—”
“I am willing to pay you whatever you ask if you find the Theotokos.”
Monty rubbed his temple. This was such a dead-end case. Stolen artifacts hardly ever showed up, and if they did, it was decades later during a sales transaction. “I don’t think we can—”
“I don’t think there is anything your company can’t do, Mr. Pierce. Your reputation precedes you, and if the Vatican trusts you to get a job done, then nothing you can say will make me doubt you can and will do everything in your power to recover the icon.”
He looked over at Joanne, who’d been listening to his end of the conversation with interest. All he wanted was to call it a day and go home with her for a nice, relaxing evening. “Fine. Okay. I’ll put someone on it.”
“Thank you so—”
“I cannot and will not promise we will find it. As a matter of fact, I can tell you now you’re wasting your money. But I’ll assign someone to take a look and ask around.”
“Wonderful,” the archbishop replied. “When will I meet him?”
“Him?” Monty already had someone in mind for the job, an op who lived a short boat ride away. He considered there to be so little chance of success in finding this icon, he wasn’t about to fly someone halfway around the world just to ask a few questions.
“I imagine your agent will have to examine the premises and see pictures of the Theotokos.”
“Of course.”
“I don’t mean to sound sexist. I am a modern man, after all, Mr. Pierce, but you must realize the Holy Mo
untain is forbidden to women.”
*
Skiathos Island, Greece
Same day
Alex Jefferson blinked hard against the glare as she stepped onto the deck of the Nostos with a coffee in one hand and today’s Makedonia in the other. The bright morning sun was already warm. “Another scorcher,” she mumbled as she set down the mug and paper and stood staring out over the turquoise harbor. And this was only June, which didn’t bode well for the rest of the summer.
Her Moody 54 was her floating home, equipped with luxury amenities and the latest high-tech navigation system. The main level of the fifty-six-foot sailboat contained a comfortable enclosed cockpit with plenty of storage and a large living space with oversized couches, a flat-screen TV, and teak dining area, all surrounded by windows for a panoramic view. Below, she had a master cabin equipped with a king-sized bed and full bathroom, two small guest quarters, and a full galley with the latest stainless-steel appliances.
Through frequently cruising, she maintained a slip in Skiathos Town, to anchor the boat while she was away and to keep tabs on her art gallery there. The Jefferson Collection did a brisk business with the tourists who came to visit the island’s seventy beaches, and her long-time employees needed little guidance to keep things running smoothly.
She settled under the canvas shade that covered one of the twin-engine control stations aft, but had barely unfolded the newspaper when a familiar voice hailed her from the pier.
“Don’t bother, just the same ole depressing crap.” Pavlos, a local fisherman, had the slip next to hers.
“I’m a glutton for bad news.”
“The fuckers are killing us. They’re going to slice the country up and sell it off piece by piece to the highest bidder.”
Alex dropped the paper on her lap. “You spoiled the surprise.” She smiled.
“You were gone for a while this time.”
“Five weeks.” Alex sipped her strong Greek coffee.
“And two days.”
“Keeping tabs?”
