One Last Thing

by Kim Baldwin

  “It’s a small village.” He shrugged. “Not much else to do other than mind everyone else’s business.”

  Alex knew village life was all about people sticking their nose where it didn’t belong. While most meant well and were honestly interested in each other’s well-being, she sometimes found the curiosity and endless questions tiring, especially when she’d just gotten back from a trying job. “Too damn small, if you ask me.”

  “You should appreciate the fact that people care. A woman your age has no business being alone.”

  Alex stood and rested her elbows on the railing. “Haven’t found Mrs. Right yet.”

  Pavlos quickly scanned the pier and surrounding boats with an expression of dismay. “Hush. You want everyone to know your business?”

  Alex laughed. “They already do.”

  He frowned disapprovingly. “Because you won’t even try to hide it.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because…well, because…it’s unchristian,” Pavlos stuttered.

  “Nobody cares.”

  “Father George does.”

  “Tell Father George I don’t give a rat’s ass about his opinion.”

  The older man blushed. “Alex!”

  “Also, tell him I said sex with a woman is as heavenly as it gets.”

  The blush deepened as Pavlos covered his ears and started to hum.

  “See you around five for the game,” Alex said. They were among a handful of soccer enthusiasts who regularly convened at the local café to watch games on its large-screen TV.

  Ears still covered, he replied, “I’ll be there. The wife wants to drag me to a christening, but I’ll be there.” He continued to hum as he walked away.

  Alex sat back on her cushioned bench and after a sip of coffee was finally ready to get to her paper. The country’s economic woes dominated the banner headline every day, but another story merited a place this morning on the bottom of the front page. Flemish Masterpiece Recovered After 80 years.

  She smiled. Locating The Just Judges by Jan van Eyck hadn’t been easy, but she’d singlehandedly managed to find the illegitimate owner of the fourteenth-century painting and return it to the Saint Bavo Cathedral in Ghent, Belgium. She’d just turned to page four for the rest of the article when she heard the distant ringing of her cell phone.

  “You’d think reading the paper would be simple enough,” she said aloud, not bothering to hide her aggravation. She went below to her bedroom to get her cell and frowned at the number on the display. “Give me a break. There’s a game on tonight.” She sighed before she answered. “140369.”

  “Meet our contact tomorrow at fourteen hundred hours in Neos Marmaras,” Montgomery Pierce said.

  She knew the area well. Neos Marmaras was a port in Halkidiki, the three-fingered peninsula that served as northern Greece’s premier vacation destination for locals and tourists alike. Though her home island was also renowned for its gold sand resorts, tavernas, and diverse nightlife, she’d sailed to Halkidiki on numerous occasions to enjoy the natural beauty of its rocky coastline and secluded beaches. “What else?”

  “You’re going to talk with the archbishop of Mount Athos.”

  “I see.” It was a well-known fact that the archbishop didn’t move his ass off the mountain for anyone.

  Pierce cleared his throat. “In his private quarters.”

  Alex sat on the foot of her bed. “I figured.” She checked her reflection in the mirror opposite, more concerned with her hair than why the big cheese of the Holy Mountain wanted the EOO’s assistance. Besides, asking Pierce wouldn’t help, since jobs were never discussed on the phone even if the line was secure.

  “You know what that means,” Pierce said.

  Alex ran her hand through her short hair, wondering if she needed a trim before she set sail. “I do.”

  Chapter Three

  Toroneos Kolpos, Halkidiki

  Next day

  Ariadne felt most at home in this clear azure sea, under the water and as far below the surface as pressure would allow. Not that she didn’t enjoy a good party or socializing within the elite circles that had been part of her birthright. She could even say she found some satisfaction in the endless business meetings her father had started to insist she attend.

  But here, within the vast expanse of blue silence, the lack of gravity unburdened her from the weight of her life, a life where she diligently performed as expected every hour of every day. From birth, she had been raised to be always in control of everything she did and said, forever mindful of whom she befriended, dated, or was even casually associated with.

  Ariadne’s life so far had been comprised of expensive schools, supplemented by private tutelage in a number of other areas. She had impeccable manners and knew how to respond appropriately to any situation. On the rare occasion when she deliberately strayed from the norm, her missteps had to be calculated ones, because even her mistakes had to be within the acceptable boundaries. In other words, she was being groomed to be as respected, feared, and dedicated to business as her father, the billionaire tycoon.

  Yet, although she loved her father and was willing to be whoever he wanted her to be, a part of her had begun to feel she was missing out. She had everything she desired and had become exactly the person her father wanted her to be, but it was never more obvious than when she was with her friends that she hadn’t developed her own unique identity. Even simple questions like her favorite color or dish were difficult to answer without taking her father’s preferences into consideration.

  Her mother had been saying for years that father and daughter were too dependent on each other, and she constantly accused her husband of neglecting their son. Ariadne figured her brother Nikolaos was already receiving more coddling than was necessary or normal for a grown man from their mother. Sure, Ariadne was close to her father, but at least he pushed her to achieve and improve, whereas her brother had rarely finished anything he’d ever started. He’d managed to get his master’s in philosophy only because their father had bribed the chancellor with a new library. Their mother was undeniably the major reason for Nikolaos’s laziness and indifference to everything but girls.

  But Ariadne loved her brother, despite his faults. When their parents were gone and she took ownership of the family business, she’d be expected to be his provider and benefactor. It was the Greek way, and she readily accepted the responsibility.

  Ariadne looked at her watch. She had only five minutes of oxygen left, so it was time to start her reluctant ascent.

  “Good morning, sweetheart.” Her father called out the greeting as soon as Ariadne broke the surface, as though he’d been watching for her.

  She swam to the yacht’s steps and peeled off her mask, then shaded her eyes with her hand to look up at him. She smiled. “You look rested today.”

  He hadn’t looked healthy for a while. At Christmas, during her last bi-annual trip home from Oxford, she’d insisted that he go for a checkup. He’d reported back that the doctors said he was in excellent condition for his age, but he still looked gaunt and pale when she came home for good in the spring.

  This morning, however, her father looked vibrant, his color good and with an unusual buoyancy of spirit.

  “Today…” He looked up at the sky and extended his arms. “Today is a good day.”

  He remained in that position, unmoving, as if praying.

  The behavior was completely out of character. “What’s up, Dad? Everything all right?”

  Her father clapped his hands. “Everything is perfect.” He laughed loud and long, as though all of his dreams had just come true. “Just perfect.”

  “Uh-huh.” Is he having a stroke? “Care to share?” Ariadne eyed him suspiciously.

  He leaned over the stern and extended his hand, still smiling broadly, but didn’t reply.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked again while he pulled her out.

  “It’s the third happiest day of my life.” He squeeze
d her shoulders, then helped her out of her tanks and set them on the deck.

  “Okaaay.”

  “First your mother, then you…and now this.” He extended his arms to the sky again, as if referring to the perfect day.

  “I have a brother, Dad.” She unzipped her wetsuit and peeled it off.

  “Of course. I meant you both.”

  “Good. So what’s so special about today?”

  “I can’t go into details,” he replied, his eyes shining with glee, “but I bought a priceless artifact.”

  “I hate it when words lose their meaning.”

  “A synonym for priceless is costly.”

  “My point. So they kinda cheated you.”

  Her father laughed.

  “When can I see it?”

  He looked away evasively. “Oh…I don’t have it, yet.”

  “Well, when does the priceless artifact arrive?”

  He cupped her face in his hands. “The only truly priceless things in my life are you and health.” Still smiling, he let her go. “I’ll see you at the meeting.” He turned to go back inside.

  “Twelve sharp,” she called after him.

  Ariadne hadn’t seen her father this vivacious and enthusiastic in years. Why did this painting, or whatever it was, have such an impact on his…everything? Kostas had rooms full of treasures—artifacts, artwork, rare manuscripts, you name it—but they hadn’t made him stare at the sky like a religious fanatic, or clap and laugh like a lunatic. And why was he being so evasive about his latest acquisition?

  This whole voyage, in fact, was out of character, she realized. Her father rarely spent more than a few days at a time on the Pegasus, and he always kept close to the southern islands nearer their home in Glyfada: Ikaria and Samos, mostly. But this time, they’d come all the way north to Halkidiki for the first time in memory, and after three weeks at sea he still seemed in no hurry to return home.

  *

  Agio Oros, Halkidiki

  As the pilgrim ferry neared the port of Ierissos, where the archbishop’s emissary would be waiting, Switch ducked into the onboard WC for a final quick assessment. The barber had taken a little more off than expected, but it was still within the range of what most men her age considered stylish these days: an inch or so long, and combed back from her face. She had naturally thick eyebrows and never trimmed them, but she’d enhanced them more with a little pencil.

  No further makeup was required for her even, androgynous features, which was why her specialty within the EOO and her code name had both been easy to choose. With the right wardrobe, haircut, mannerisms, and speech, she could transition convincingly between a boyishly attractive man and a woman more readily called handsome than beautiful.

  For her meeting with the archbishop, she’d dressed in men’s black high-top sneakers, khaki trousers, and a black polo. Narrow-hipped and long-legged, with an athletic build she rigorously maintained at her home gym, she could easily shop in the men’s department for pants, but she had to tightly bind her breasts to get form-fitting summer shirts to fit appropriately.

  Their contact in Neos Marmaras, a bespectacled nerd they’d nicknamed Dilbert, had filled her in on what little Pierce knew about the case. He’d also provided Switch with detailed information about the Holy Mountain, including its history and customs, and how to get around the 130-square-mile peninsula.

  She’d then called the archbishop’s office to arrange their appointment, introducing herself under the pseudonym Alex Ramos.

  Switch was on the same page with Pierce on this one. It was going to be a cold case. Stolen artifacts rarely resurfaced, and if they did, usually only decades later. He’d asked her to see the archbishop only because she was a couple hours away and spoke the language fluently, and of course, out of courtesy to the Roman Catholic cardinal who’d referred him. The EOO had knocked on the Vatican’s door plenty in the past and wanted to ensure continued cooperation with the Holy See.

  A short monk with a black-and-gray beard waved her over when she got off the ferry. “Good morning, Mr. Ramos.” He extended his hand as she neared.

  “Call me Alex.”

  “The archbishop is waiting for you.” He gestured for Switch to follow him to the Jeep. Twenty minutes later, they were at the Athonite administrative offices at Karyes, a small settlement nestled amidst walnut and hazel trees in the middle of the peninsula. “I’ll take you to him.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  The archbishop looked up from his desk when Switch entered his office.

  “You’re younger than I expected,” he said in English and extended his hand.

  Switch shook the offered hand with a firm grip. “Don’t let my boyish looks fool you,” she replied in Greek.

  The archbishop examined her closely, as if trying to look past her. “Nothing fools me at eighty.” He sat back down. “You’re Greek.” He sounded almost disappointed.

  Switch sat without being asked, opposite the archbishop. “Is that a problem?”

  “I did not know the EOO had people in Greece.”

  “They have people everywhere.”

  He crossed his hands on the desk. “Hmm. I hope you do better than our fellow countrymen. I’m sorry, but I refuse to hide my disappointment in our police, government, and politicians.”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry about. The corruption in Greece is no big secret.”

  “I need to trust that whoever finds the Theotokos will return it to its home and not take it to the highest bidder.”

  “I understand your concerns, but you don’t need to worry about that with me. Frankly…” She searched for a diplomatic way to lessen his expectations.

  “Yes?”

  “I have to be honest. The chances of the icon showing up are next to zero.”

  “I cannot accept that.”

  “With all due respect, if you are as God-fearing and God-trusting as is expected for your position—”

  “Of course.”

  “Then why not wait for it to return? The story has it that the Theotokos cannot be moved. It will always return to its home on the Holy Mountain.”

  “It’s not a story.”

  Talking to these people about religion was like stomping on eggshells and expecting not to break them. “No, of course not.” What was she supposed to say? That it’s all a heap of dung, but hey, if it floats your boat, then by all means? “I’m sure there’s merit to what is said about the icon.”

  “We can’t simply wait for it to return by itself, for reasons I can’t explain.”

  Try “it’s an inanimate object,” she thought. Switch sat back in the huge leather armchair. “Start from the beginning, Father. When did you realize the Theotokos was missing?”

  The archbishop talked nonstop for nearly a half hour, filling her in on what they knew about the theft and on specifics about the Simonopetra monastery.

  “So, Father Antonis, one of only five monks to have a key, turned up dead.”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you considered the possibility of Father Antonis being behind the theft? You know, a deal gone wrong?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “Okay, then.” She got to her feet. “Let’s start with Father Antonis’s quarters.”

  Switch had never been religious, spiritual, or anything but pragmatic. She’d heard about the icon purely because of the circles she moved in. Her job was to retrieve and return stolen artifacts, paintings, and so on, so aside from her EOO training, her extensive studies had included everything from art history to archeology, and she was also a licensed authentication expert.

  “I’ll take you there myself, though I’ve already had the room searched.”

  “I’m sure, but it can’t hurt to look again.”

  Father Antonis’s quarters at the Simonopetra Monastery were Spartan, to say the least. A bed, a night table, a sink, a shelf for his cassocks and linens, and one bookshelf with various Holy Scriptures. The walls, ceiling, and floor were stone, leaving
no place to hide anything. It didn’t take longer than a few minutes to verify that nothing of interest was left behind. “You said you found maps?”

  “Indeed. Hand-drawn maps were scattered on his bed. Various versions of how to get up through the tunnel system into the underground chapel that held the icon.”

  “If he had to make a map, then he obviously didn’t tag along for the theft.”

  The archbishop touched his beard. “I suppose.”

  “Did Father Antonis have any visitors…guests, prior to the theft?”

  “None that he was familiar with. Monastics leave behind family and friends when they are ordained. But he regularly gave tours to pilgrims.”

  “Do you keep a record of visitors?”

  “We do. They must show their passports and apply for a special permit to gain access to the Holy Mountain.”

  “I’d like a list of all visitors from the past couple of weeks.”

  “Easily done. I have those records back in my office and will send someone to get them at once.”

  They left the annex that contained the monk’s rooms and emerged into one of the narrow cobbled walkways that snaked through the massive monastery. Switch studied the building’s seven-story exterior. “Security cameras?”

  The archbishop hesitated before he answered. “As far as the outside world knows, we have none. To advertise such measures, especially in these turbulent times, would merely call attention that the fact that we have many priceless icons, artifacts, and manuscripts housed within the monasteries: some known, and some—like the Theotokos—forever a secret to all but a few. But a couple of years ago, we recognized the need to take whatever steps possible to safeguard our Holy Treasures. So we have discreetly installed cameras at all of the monasteries, including this one.”

  “And?”

  “Two cameras—one inside the chapel where the icon is kept and one in the exterior hallway—caught brief images of a man in monk’s garb. We could tell he was not one of us, but I don’t think the footage is clear or long enough to help you. The icon was taken during the hours the monks are asleep and the lights are dimmed throughout the monastery.”