The water-blurred sign on the inside of the door said “Closed.” Ritter tapped on the wet glass. The early-spring rain was gushing down London-style, bathing the city and assaulting endless black umbrellas whose stoic owners wistfully dreamed of holidays in the sun. Cold drops crept into the collar of his tightly zipped jacket. A figure in the back stirred. It was Thompson shuffling forward to open up for him. Thompson, an odd old duck. How ironic for him. All these years studying maps and researching treasure hunts for others while unknowingly only a drunken heartbeat away from his own. How ironic also that it was apparently the same treasure he and Rogers and Devan had looked for in 1943. Ritter couldn’t get over it. After all these years.
A muffled voice said, “Brian, come in, my boy.” Thompson pushed open the door with a loud click. Ritter stepped quickly inside and peeled off his jacket, shaking away some of the water.
“You should get yourself a brolly.”
“You should get yourself some sunshine.”
Thompson chuckled and motioned Ritter in. Mopping his head with an already damp handkerchief, Ritter moved past the old man and made his way to the back of the shop.
A swarthy man of about forty was seated next to the desk. At first glance he struck Ritter as a Mediterranean antique dealer who had come in to sell Thompson expensive used furniture. He had the smooth look of a commercial man, the polished well-groomed appearance that often grows on those who spend their lives in expensive clothes, good restaurants, and the company of chic women. The man stared intently at Ritter as he moved toward him.
Khoury, who had not known exactly what to expect, was impressed by the American. His athletic bearing encouraged confidence. He was a man who had taken good care of himself, and although obviously well into middle age, still had a lot of life left. He was a man of the outdoors, a man who could handle himself. Yet there was a deceptively leisurely manner about him, the air of a man seldom rushed, seldom in a hurry.
Thompson squirmed between them to make the introduction. He had brooded nervously about the moment all afternoon. The more he thought about it, the more his stomach hurt. What if they didn’t hit it off? What if their personalities clashed so badly they couldn’t work together? Khoury was intense and secretive. He was a man of the drawing room, a negotiator, an expert in deals and bargaining. There was something shrewd, perhaps even cunning about him. Thompson admired and in fact envied Khoury’s smooth command of so many languages. This was the mark of a sophisticate, a man of the world. An inside man with all the accompanying skills. On the other hand, Ritter, easygoing and basically an open person, spoke only English and a smattering of Spanish. He had spent most of his adult life in the outdoors, diving in the West Indies, a more physically oriented but decidedly more provincial existence. Ritter’s treasure-hunting experience had taught him patience, diligence in seeking the hard-to-find. Thompson was certain Ritter was the type who would remain cool in a tight and dangerous situation. A man who had spent as much time underwater as Ritter was not one to panic or scare easily. The two had little in common. A dot and a dash. Salt and pepper. But they would need all their combined skills and talents to find the gold and get it out of Greece. If they didn’t take to one another, the entire project could be endangered.
Khoury rose slowly and extended his hand. Ritter grasped firmly, making Khoury even more aware of his excellent physical condition. Khoury defensively squeezed hard. Ritter noticed the hand was smooth, not overly muscular.
“How do you do,” said Khoury cautiously.
“Greetings,” replied Ritter in his languid manner. The visual sizing-up process was only momentary. To Thompson, as the two men briefly examined each other, the moment seemed to last much of the evening. The chairs scraped loudly on the stone floor as they sat down. Thompson busied himself making the expected tea, letting the chemical laws of nature take their course. One of the men cleared his throat.
“Bit wet out there.” Khoury broke the stiff silence.
“Yeah,” said Ritter. “Like rain in the Amazon. Falls in sheets. Then suddenly, like a spigot, turns off.”
“In Africa the rainy season was the same way. Used to drench everything. Often caused flash floods in Conakry. Left mold everywhere, in shoes, clothes, everything.”
Thompson let them talk. The casual conversation burned the tension out of the air.
“Gentlemen, a cup of Darjeeling’s best.” The two accepted the tea from Thompson and he sat down to join them.
“I’ve been figuring,” Thompson said, “that if each of the three strongboxes my brother-in-law Jimmy talked about took three men to lift, they could weigh as much as one hundred and seventy pounds. Assuming the basic weight of each box was already twenty pounds, we are talking about four hundred and fifty pounds of gold. The other two boxes contained perhaps another two hundred pounds. That’s a total of six hundred and fifty. At today’s prices, I conservatively make it at least a million and a half dollars, maybe almost two million. Shared three ways, it would be about half a million each.”
He paused. The only noise was the pelting of the rain and the loud breathing of Ritter and Khoury. Thompson was having no trouble holding their attention.
“Alfred, I’m convinced this is the same gold we were looking for in 1943,” Ritter said. “Too many basic points overlap for it to be anything else. But I don’t think it is a good idea for us to run into the mountains unless we can find some corroborating evidence. There must be records that can confirm the basic facts.”
“I agree,” said Khoury. “If we can confirm the two officers were definitely killed, then I am prepared to fully accept the story. We must be sure one of the two didn’t somehow survive and hasn’t already returned and dug up the gold.”
“I’m most concerned about the maps,” said Ritter. “It’s a basic rule of any kind of hunt, whether it’s a dive or a search for buried loot. We must check the sketches against some real maps. Are the roads where Jimmy claimed? Does it seem feasible the burial site could be where he claimed it was? I don’t want to go up there unless his sketches correspond to some good maps. If the sketches and maps don’t match up, it could be pocket pool whether the gold is there or not.”
“The Imperial War Museum can be a starting point for research,” Thompson said. “We should be able to verify many of the basics there. The Public Records Office also should be helpful. The official war diaries are there. The maps can be checked at the Royal Geographical Society, and further research can be made through the Ministry of Defense.”
A flash of blinding light and a sudden clap of thunder shook the shop. Khoury ducked down, and then, sheepishly, gradually pulled himself up. His face was as white as a lily at a funeral. The noise had startled Ritter too, but Khoury was really shaken.
“Thought they’d gotten me,” said Khoury with a weak laugh.
“Let’s go out and get a drink,” said Ritter.
Khoury had pulled out a handkerchief and was wiping his face. His color was coming back. “A good idea. Let’s go, gentlemen. I’ll buy.”
All three men began putting on their coats. Ritter looked again at Khoury. An interesting man. Obviously intelligent, shrewd. But there was something about him. The idea of depending on him in the treacherous mountains of northern Greece gave Ritter a slightly queasy feeling.