“Christ, it’s worse than I thought,” Ritter said. “It could be anywhere.” Through the camper’s rain-splattered windows loomed the dark range of mountains hung with a ghostly early-morning mist. His breath kept fogging the glass.
An hour earlier they had left Kozani following a restless night at the Aliakmon Hotel. On the drive from Thessalonica the previous day, they decided to establish their operations base at Kozani, well known as a traditional center for Greek nationalism and pro-monarchist sentiments. It was the nearest town of any size to the search area, and the hotel was certainly more comfortable and convenient than camping in the mountains. “Besides,” Khoury had said, “I’m afraid I’m too civilized for nights in a tent or a camping van without a warm bed and hot water.” Neither Ritter nor Michelle needed convincing. But Michelle, feeling easier with Khoury, didn’t pass the chance for a light stab. “You’re getting soft in your old age,” she chided.
“Just more practical, my dear,” he replied. “That kind of stuff is only for boy scouts, field soldiers, or the mentally demented.”
They headed in the direction of Mount Siniatsikon and began driving back and forth, combing the mountains trying to locate the exact pass marked on Waddell’s rough sketch. In many ways, it all looked familiar. The villages, the landscape, the mountains. The flavor of the place was just as it had been thirty-two years ago. But at the same time, Ritter recognized nothing. Time had distorted or washed out his memories. With Devan and Rogers and the Greek kid from Brooklyn, he had driven along this same road looking at the wrecks. No sign of them now. The road was paved and widened. The sparse traffic flowed smoothly. It was the same world, but different. They were starting from scratch. With each mile, the rain fell harder.
Ritter broke the long silence. “I already see this is going to be as tough as a dive.”
Khoury was amused. “Yes, habibi. If it keeps up like this, we’ll have to swim to the treasure, or take an ark.” He was in a surprisingly good mood. The Arabic term of endearment flowed easily through his lips.
“When the research is finished,” said Ritter, “you are always sure you know to the inch where the treasure is. Each dive begins with the optimistic belief you will swim right down and scoop it all up. The reality is, it usually takes days or weeks or even longer sometimes to uncover the actual site, regardless of how good the maps or descriptions are.”
Ritter edged the camper slowly up the narrow winding road. The drop off the side of the muddy unfenced track was at least three hundred feet. Heavy rain made visibility increasingly difficult. “Our sketch generally corresponds to these maps, but matching it here on the ground is not so easy. All goes back to the basic problem.”
“That is?”
“That is, we don’t know what kind of tricks Waddell’s memory played on him during the years in that prison camp and afterward fighting the drink. I was here too, and I don’t recognize a thing. This clearly is not going to be your standard cakewalk.”
They stopped for forty-five minutes at midday to lunch on cold chicken sandwiches Michelle had obtained from the hotel kitchen. The dark mountains and heavy rain had steadily sobered them. There was little conversation. When the remnants were packed away, they moved on. The rest of the afternoon was spent crawling along mile after dreary mile, eliminating slowly, one by one, possible sites. As darkness began to close in on them, they had established nothing positive. A valuable day was irretrievably gone. Wearily and glumly they returned to the hotel.
“I’ve had more exciting days,” said Michelle as they finished a quiet after dinner drink and walked up the stairs.
“Certainly more productive,” added Khoury.
“All in a day’s hunt,” said Ritter. He slung an arm affectionately over Michelle’s shoulder and they headed for their room.
None of them had taken particular notice of the heavyset man with garlic breath sitting in the lobby pretending to read a week-old copy of an Athens newspaper.
* * *
“There,” blurted Khoury, his voice rising. It was shortly before noon. After nearly five hours of driving, they tentatively had identified a pass and were now looking up at caves that matched the description given by Waddell.
“Like a sandwich,” said Ritter. “And the streambed fits.”
Michelle rolled back the sun roof and stood up through the top of the camper to survey the exhilarating scene. The rain of the day before had moved on, leaving the air cool and clear. The mist also had slithered off. The deep green mountains rich with pines and patches of snow flecking the peaks were framed by a brilliant blue sky.
They were several hundreds yards up a streambed from the small mountain road. The mountainside looming above them was covered with a dense growth of trees and brush, except, about 150 yards above, for stratalike rock formations bare of foliage, excitingly similar to those Waddell had described.
“Let’s have a closer look,” said Ritter, climbing out of the camper.
Khoury followed, pulling the Waddell sketches from his pocket. The rough drawing was definitely similar to the rock formations in front of them.
“Now the map,” said Ritter.
Khoury carefully unfolded the map. They didn’t have to look at it long. It didn’t match.
“According to the map, we should be able to see Mount Siniatsikon from here in this direction,” said Ritter, pointing away from the caves. “But it’s over that ridge, a difference of nearly ninety degrees.”
“He couldn’t have been that wrong,” Khoury sighed. “We haven’t found it yet.”
“Elias,” Ritter said, “I think we ought to lunch in Ardhassa. Get to know the natives.”
“You know the risk.”
“Is there a choice? There are maybe ten passes up here similar to the one Waddell was referring to. There may be hundreds of rock formations similar to this. We could spend weeks trying to find the right one.”
“We don’t have that kind of time.”
“That’s the point,” said Ritter, running his fingers through his hair. “There may not be a single case on record of foreign tourists stopping more than two nights in Kozani. Imagine the questions if we have to stretch this thing over four or five days. Sooner or later someone will start asking what those strange tourists are up to. The questions will eventually draw official attention. We’ve got to find a shortcut. That means seeing if some of the old-timers at Ardhassa remember which passes the convoys used and which one was blocked by the bombing Waddell talked about.”
* * *
Ardhassa was a classic village of rural Macedonia. The heart of the simple community was the single commercial enterprise, the magazi, the combination grocery, bar, café, and town hall that’s as essential to life in rural northern Greece as life itself. Ardhassa’s magazi was not particularly imposing. It was a simple one-storey dwelling coated with seasons of whitewash and character. Alongside the building was a flagstone terrace that in the height of summer was shaded by a large tree and grape vines trestled overhead.
But in early spring, shade was slightly less desirable than a late snowfall. Several village men, trying to forget the harsh mountain winter and encourage the luxurious summer, were seated around three of the rusted metal tables on the patio sipping thick coffee or white retsina wine. The still-gentle spring sun offered a warm promise of better days approaching as it climbed each day further into the sky. Talk on the terrace centered on speculation about the grape crop and the reportedly illicit activities in Athens of the daughter of an absent village elder.
The older men in the group all wore traditional baggy, pleated dark blue wool trousers, heavy black wool shirts, and black boots. Several of them were leaning on carved walking sticks or shepherd’s crooks. They were lean, hawk-eyed men with proud mustaches and sharp features chiseled by generations of wind, rain, sun, snow, and ice.
Conversation stopped as the camper pulled up. The men turned to stare at the visitors. It was not often Ardhassa was honored by a delegation from the outside. This was the first time since last fall.
Ritter, Khoury, and Michelle casually climbed out of the camper like admiring tourists and walked into the magazi. The room, heavy with a rich and unfamiliar odor, was larger inside than they had expected. Along one side were slabs of salted cod and open tubs of salted sardines and anchovies, their levels low as the winter neared its end. Other items reflected the simple life pattern of the small community—coils of rope, tinned goods, saws, bales of cotton and wool, horse nails, and small barrels of olives. Clear ouzo in large jars filled one shelf. On another wall hung mule bridles and lengths of webbing for girths, along with two leather saddles. The dust on them indicated they hadn’t been touched since they were hung up at least a winter ago. Obviously it hadn’t been a big year for saddle sales.
On the floor in the center of the dimly lit room a red-and-black rug was spread out. Across it lay the pelt of a wolf which had strayed one spring too close to the village from the security of the surrounding mountains.
An old woman clad in black was seated beside the open blackened hearth. She stood up in reaction to their entry. Khoury spoke in Greek, asking her whether they could get something to eat and drink.
“She says she doesn’t have much, some goat’s cheese and warmed-over mutton,” he translated. “But she can provide a small meza, olives, onions, and, if we like, hummus.”
“Sounds fine,” said Ritter. Michelle nodded in agreement. They turned and strolled out onto the terrace. The men continued staring quietly, expectantly. In the mountains it was understood strangers must always speak first. “Hello,” Khoury said cautiously, bowing his head slightly to all of them.
“Welcome,” said one of the men guardedly.
“You are well found,” said Khoury politely, offering the traditional reply to a greeting.
“Please be seated,” said another of the men. They had passed the critical first test.
The three sat down on rush-bottomed chairs around one of the chipped white tables.
The old woman appeared shortly with a bottle and three glasses. Retsina wine can only be described to the uninitiated as an acquired taste. It is particularly Greek and not usually appealing to those sampling it for the first time. “Ugh,” said Michelle, taking her first sip. “I’ve tasted better mouthwash.” Her comparisons with the light wines of the Loire were even less flattering.”
“They treat the casks and barrels with tar or resin,” explained Khoury. “And it seeps into the wine. It is a product of nature the Greeks have accepted. You must drink the tar or do without the wine. The latter is obviously not a serious option. When Greeks think of wine, they think of the resin taste. Because of the tourists, however, some vineyards are now producing wine in glass bottles. But no respectable man in this village would touch it. For them and many other Greeks, resin is the normal taste.”
After a few sips, Ritter found he was slowly adjusting to the wine. He still didn’t like the taste, but each sip seemed a bit smoother than the previous one.
The old woman appeared with the food and spread it on the table. They were all hungry, and the hot mutton was delicious, as was the warm bread, the hummus, and the freshly cut onions. For a moment, refreshed by the crisp air and warmed by the food and wine, they lost themselves. For a moment it was a real holiday, an escape from the frantic aggressive outside world and their growing concern about the hunt. The villagers looked on approvingly. Khoury caught himself, but realized the mood was not unhelpful.
“The Greek word for stranger is the same as the word for guest,” said Khoury, chewing on the piece of mutton. “Xenos. It illustrates the strong feeling of hospitality these people feel. But it also is worth remembering the word is the root of your English word ‘xenophobia,’ the hate of foreigners.”
“What’s the point?” said Ritter, looking up from his plate.
“These men here are quick to welcome us. But they will be quick to distrust us if we make a suspicious move, do something outside the acceptable pattern they have put us in.”
“Don’t have much choice.”
“Only in style. We’ll finish our meal and have a leisurely coffee. The last thing we can afford to do is rush them. We’ve got to lull them into accepting us.” Khoury looked over at one of the older men, raised his glass in silent toast, and smiled warmly. The men at the table smiled back approvingly. It pleased them the strangers were enjoying their meal. It was a compliment to the village.
It was not lost on Michelle that she was the only woman on the terrace. “This place doesn’t exactly look like a bastion of women’s lib,” she said.
“Hardly,” said Khoury. “These places are for men only except for tourists and special festive occasions. The men enjoy seeing a pretty girl like you here. It brings them pleasure. But they would strongly disapprove of a village girl your age walking in and joining us. She would have to stay with the old woman inside. Of course, they never think about the obvious double standard for their women and those of the outside world. It is an old system here. They don’t want it changed.”
As the old woman brought them coffee, Khoury turned to the man at the table nearest them.
“Looks like an early spring,” he said in Greek.
The old shepherd grunted. “The signs are good. A few lambs have already been born. A good sign to see them come a bit early.”
“Not bad for the grapes, either. How was the harvest last fall?”
The old man proudly explained it had been a good year. Soon he and Khoury were deep in conversation about the local wine and farming. Ritter and Michelle looked on with counterfeit interest as though they could follow the conversation in Greek, occasionally nodding and smiling when it seemed appropriate.
Khoury ordered another round of coffee before the opening came from the old man.
“You tourists? You don’t sound like a Greek.”
“Not entirely. My mother was Greek. I was raised in Africa. Now I’m with a university in France. The girl is also a teacher doing some special studies. The man is a friend of hers.” He winked at the shepherd, chancing a bit of titillation would amuse him.
“What brings you to Ardhassa?” the old man asked equably, not revealing his reaction.
“Our studies.”
“What are you studying?”
“History. The last war, in fact. In particular, the German invasion of Greece.” He lowered his voice slightly. “I’m writing a book,” he confided.
“A book,” the old man exclaimed. “Hey, fellows, this gentleman is writing a book.” It was the kind of effort that impressed the simple village men. Most of them couldn’t even read. Anyone at work on a book was considered an intellectual, someone to be highly respected.
Others from nearby tables drifted over to join the conversation.
“Were you here when the Germans invaded?” asked Khoury.
“Yes, that was the spring of ’41, I remember. The British left in a hurry, and the Germans rolled through. Wasn’t all that much fighting. Didn’t come until later, when the Americans and British came back at the end of the war.”
“We were interested in tracing some of the retreat routes of the British. Everybody knows about the main routes. But some of the lesser-known routes would be of academic interest. I understand there was a pass blown up near here. Some British units were trapped.”
The old man pushed his coarse black wool cap back and scratched his head. “You mean Mitata Pass?”
“What happened there?”
“The German planes bombed it until a landslide finally closed it. It took the British trapped behind it more than twenty-four hours to clear a path through. By then the Germans closed in. Some British were killed. A lot of others escaped on foot to the main road on the other side.”
“Where is Mitata?”
Pointing his crook, the old man indicated the pass was about four miles south of the village. They had driven over it earlier in the morning but hadn’t had a chance to look for a possible turnoff. If that was it, Waddell’s map was slightly wrong. But not so wrong as to rule out the pass the old man was talking about.
Khoury struggled not to show any particular interest. “Must have been an exciting time.”
“Damn Germans. Came through the village the next day. Their tanks rolled through without stopping. Three of my sheep were killed, and no one ever paid me a drachma for them. We saw a lot of Germans during the war, but they never bothered us here much. Patrols came through a couple of times looking for partisans. But they didn’t find anything. The partisans were too clever for them. Later the Communists came through trying to kill those fighting for the king. They were the worst.”
Khoury spent the next fifteen minutes discussing the war and civil war.
At one point one of the younger men, a sullen-faced farmer who appeared to be about forty-five, asked in an antagonistic voice, “Why are you asking these questions? What business is it of yours?”
“Told you. We are from France. Studying the history and campaigns of World War II.”
“We don’t like strangers nosing around.”
“Now, now, Marko,” said the old man. “That’s not a way to treat these people.”
The man suffered the rebuff from the village elder in silence and sulked off. Khoury was sure he had already heard what they wanted. It was time to break off and leave. No sense in creating unnecessary tensions.
“It has been a pleasure talking with you,” he said. “We must be off.” He got up and walked into the magazi to settle the bill with the old woman. She accepted his payment gratefully. It was not often money came into the village from the outside, particularly this time of year.
Khoury waved to the men on the terrace as the three climbed into the camper. Most of them waved back, smiling. Khoury had left a generous tip with the old woman to make a better impression on the villagers.
“Take it easy, Brian,” said Khoury. “All we need now is to get a ticket for speeding.” They all laughed.
They reached Mitata with about an hour of daylight left. There was no trace of the deadly landslides of thirty-four years ago. Time and the normal road rebuilding had long erased the scars of the war. It was hard to imagine that the peaceful scene had ever seen men die.
They drove along the road through the pass and the village of Mouzakion before Michelle spotted it.
“There,” she said. “That might be described as a former streambed.”
The way was overgrown, but years before it obviously had been a streambed until some act of nature diverted the water away. The dried-out pathway moved up the hill toward the ridge at the top of the mountain in the direction of the main road.
“Let’s try it,” said Ritter. “We have just enough time before it gets dark.” Ritter was able to guide the camper about 150 yards before the undergrowth proved to be too thick. “We’ll have to walk the rest of the way,” he said.
They got out and walked for another fifteen minutes before Michelle shouted, “Look!” She was pointing to a rock formation high up on the mountainside above them. The formation was very similar to the one they previously had examined. The stratalike formations looked like a giant rock sandwich on the side of the mountain. There were obviously a number of caves up there. Khoury pulled out the Waddell map, turned, and looked at Mount Siniatsikon. “Right where it should be,” he said.
Ritter could feel the excitement beginning to grow in him. “Let’s get up there.”
They scrambled up the mountainside to the caves. One part was blocked shut by large rocks. It looked like it had been covered years before by a rock slide—“or a hand-grenade explosion,” said Michelle.
“Could be,” said Khoury.
Ritter looked at the mountain again. “It fits, Elias. The mountain, the description of the caves, the streambed, the pass. I think we’ve found it.”
“Looks like it,” said Khoury, trying to keep his emotions under control. The two men shook hands. Michelle gave them both a congratulatory kiss on the cheek.
“It’s beautiful,” she said.
“Hardly seems like it’s holding two million dollars in gold, does it?” said Ritter.
Khoury looked at his watch and then up at the fading light.
“You’re right, Elias,” said Ritter, noticing the gesture. “It’s too late to start anything tonight. From the looks of this, it’s going to take a bit of digging. We’ll start early tomorrow morning.”
“Another night in the luxurious Aliakmon Hotel,” said Michelle.
“The last,” said Khoury.
“You think we can dig this out in a single day?” said Ritter, doubt in his voice.
“Highly unlikely,” said Khoury. “But we’ve already spent too much time in the hotel. And I don’t like the way the villagers reacted today. They were polite, but clearly suspicious. We must leave here as soon as possible. Some of the hotel people may already be wondering why we’ve hung around the area so long. Doesn’t make sense.”
“We’ll go back and spend a final night, telling everyone we’re heading on to Servia and points farther south,” Khoury said. “We’ll come up here early tomorrow and stay until we get the gold out.”
“We might have to do a bit of camping,” said Ritter.
“I know,” Khoury said. “Frankly, I’d rather be back in Conakry. But we can’t very well turn up at that hotel at night dirty and sweaty from a day of digging. We might as well invite everyone in the place to join us.”
“Guess that makes us all boy scouts,” said Ritter.
“Or mentally demented,” said Michelle.
Khoury smiled. “I’m just a good soldier doing my duty,” he said. “Tomorrow is P Day.”
“P Day?”
“Payoff Day.”
The three arrived at the hotel well after dark. Ritter knew he was tired, but the anticipation of the hunt was more than enough to keep him going for the drive back. Michelle fell asleep in the back of the camper, managing nearly an hour’s nap. Khoury sat quietly in the front beside Ritter. He was intensely quiet. Whatever his thoughts, he wasn’t in a mood to share them.
They went straight to the hotel bar and ordered a round of drinks.
“How was your day?” asked the bartender.
“Saw some very interesting churches,” lied Michelle. “There are a number of them with fifteenth- and sixteenth-century murals in Aiani,” she said, quoting from the guidebook by memory. “I’m sure you know them.”
“I have lived here all my life,” said the young man. “But I have never visited that village. Only tourists go there.”
“The area is beautiful,” said Khoury. “But we’ve got to move on tomorrow. Heading on down to Servia and Larissa. There are some ruins we want to see before heading on to Athens and the islands.”
“I was in Athens last year,” the bartender said. “Didn’t like it. Too frantic for me. Too many cars and, if you’ll pardon me, too many tourists.”
“I know what you mean,” said Ritter. “Too many bartenders spoil the drink, eh?”
The man smiled. He liked these people. They were not like the ordinary tourists who usually stayed one night on their way from Thessalonica to Athens. Or boorish Greek businessmen. They were pleasant, and that one was a pretty good tipper for someone who spoke Greek. He had the feeling the man was not entirely Greek. He envied them traveling with such a beautiful girl. One of the maids told him the American was sleeping with the girl. Lucky fellow.
The three moved into the dining room and ate a light meal before deciding to turn in.
“How about a quick drink before going up?” said Khoury. Ritter glanced at Michelle. She smiled.
“Nope,” said Ritter. “Think we’ll pass it up. Got a fairly heavy day … of driving … tomorrow. I want to be fresh.”
“Me too,” she said.
“Roger,” said Khoury, smiling at them with a knowing grin. Yes, Ritter was not such a fool after all. He strongly wished he had a girl of his own, too.
They stood up and turned to the stairway. As they did, a heavyset man with a thick droopy mustache approached them. His breath was overloaded with garlic. They had not noticed him before. His shoulders were slightly hunched and the sleeves of his jacket were at least an inch too short. He reminded Ritter of a country tobacco salesman.
“Excuse me,” he said in strongly accented English. “Mr. Khoury, Mr. Ritter, and Miss Simonet?”
“Yes?”
The man pulled a wallet from his pocket, opened it, and showed his identification card.
“I am Lieutenant Doriacles of the Macedonian Gendarmerie. I’d like you to come down to the station with me for a few minutes. Don’t be alarmed. It’s just a routine matter.”