Early in life Ritter learned one of those rare and valuable things that never can be taught. It was not clear when or how he learned it. Most probably he never unlearned it. For it is a marvelous facility that every small child has, but few are able to carry it with them into adulthood. This is the enviable ability to clear one’s mind of worldly concerns each night and sleep. Unlike others who sought refuge from their cares in drink or drugs or other self-destructive diversions, Ritter always had been able to sleep off his worries and problems. He found sleep a balm, a nourisher, a mending process that indeed knitted together his unraveled sleeves of care. It meant each day could begin fresh after nature’s soothing second course.
Hearing the crushing news from Khoury, Ritter and Michelle quietly said goodnight as he glumly got up and went to his own room. After an affectionate but weary exchange of words, they fell asleep in each other’s arms. Michelle, bothered by their loss, dozed restlessly. Ritter, as usual, celebrated the death of a bad and disturbing day with a deep and untroubled sleep.
It didn’t last the night.
About an hour before dawn Michelle was awakened by a soft tapping at their door.
“Who is it?” she called. Ritter stirred slightly.
“Elias.”
“Just a minute,” she said. Michelle, as always, was sleeping in the nude. Up in a flash, she slipped on the shirt and jeans she had worn the previous day, went to the door, and opened it cautiously.
“He’s here,” said Khoury, pushing his way past her into the room. “Quick, get him up.” He pointed an impatient finger toward Ritter.
“Who’s here?” she asked sleepily.
“Metaxas.”
The name and its implications jolted her like an electric shock.
“Brian, wake up.” She stepped over to the bed and shook him roughly.
“Huh?” he mumbled groggily.
“Get up. Elias’ friend is here.”
Ritter rubbed his face, yawned, and looked over to see Khoury standing in the doorway.
“We haven’t got much time, Brian. Get dressed. Come to my room.” Khoury slipped quietly out of the door.
Ritter’s mind cleared quickly. He jumped up, hitting the floor with a thud, harder than he intended. He slipped on his shirt, jeans, and shoes and they hurried to Khoury’s room. They didn’t bother to knock.
Khoury was frantically throwing clothes into a suitcase, speaking in Greek to a man sitting in a chair in the corner opposite the door. As Ritter and Michelle entered the room, Khoury swung his arms toward the corner. “Meet Dimitri Metaxas.”
He was a good-looking man in his mid-thirties with a strong, broad face and a steely smile. His thick black hair was like a mane on an expensive race horse. Ritter would learn later that Dimitri Metaxas had been linked for some ten years to the grubby, shadowy world of espionage and terrorism. It was believed that among other assignments he once worked for the Israeli intelligence organization Mossad, posing as an arms dealer in Lebanon to gain information on the needs and capabilities of the PLO.
Metaxas stood up slowly to shake hands with Ritter and Michelle.
“He knows the basic problem,” said Khoury. “He’s going to help us.”
Metaxas spoke English with some difficulty. But he was able to make himself understood. “Voko has two men parked in a car at the end of the driveway. They can see the hotel entrance pretty well, but not the side door. They also have a poor view of the parking lot, particularly in the darkness.”
“What about the hotel itself?” asked Ritter.
“There is only the desk clerk. He is still asleep. But we must move quickly,” said Metaxas.
“Dimitri will need the cap you’ve been wearing, Michelle,” said Khoury. “He has two men downstairs who came with him. One of them is his brother. They will drive the van out. One of them will wear the cap. They can slip unseen into the van in the dark and take off. The lights of the camper will blind Voko’s men as it goes past. They will think it is the three of us, with one of us in the back, out of sight.”
“And we’ll just wait in the parking lot until Voko’s goons take off following the van?” said Ritter.
“That’s it.”
“But at some point they’ll be able to see that it’s not us in the van,” protested Michelle.
“That’s one of the risks,” said Khoury. “But Voko’s men don’t know exactly what we look like. They can be deceived up to a point. Metaxas’ brother will try to lose the tail as soon as he can. He will make sure, however, the van is seen along the road on the way south. He’ll take it as far south as Larissa and then give them the slip again. Voko will be worried, but hopefully he will think we are at least out of the immediate area and trying to reach Athens. Until he realizes what’s happened, that should give us enough time to find the boxes. In the meantime, a cousin of Metaxas’ will paint the camper, give it a new license plate and registration, and we’ll pick it up in a few days in Trikala and be on our way.”
“Nice to have friends,” said Ritter. He was impressed.
“Let’s get going,” said Khoury. “We only have thirty minutes or so before dawn.”
Ritter and Michelle returned hastily to their room, gathered their belongings together, and met Khoury and Metaxas in the hall as they quietly moved downstairs. Two men were seated in the lobby. No sign of the desk clerk. One of the men silently pointed toward a couch at the end of the lobby. It was making a restful snoring sound.
Suddenly a car crunched over the gravel in the driveway.
“A woman,” whispered the man nearest the door.
It was Melanie. Ritter moved toward her, putting his finger to his lips and pointing toward the couch. Melanie nodded her understanding.
“What are you doing here?” he asked softly.
“I’ve come to warn you,” she said. “Voko is planning to kill you. They have set up some sort of ambush. Those men in the driveway are his.”
“We figured that,” said Ritter. “But how do you know?”
Melanie self-consciously rubbed her cheek with the tips of her fingers, providing an artificial pause as she attempted to gain control over the words pushing their way out.
“Voko is a vain man. Pompous. I know him well. Too well. He can’t avoid talking about his exploits. He bragged about trapping the foreigners.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Brian, I hate him. And he hates me…. Yes, I am married to him, but there is no marriage. No children. Nothing. It is a trap. So many years …” She clamped her trembling lower lip between her teeth. “You saved my life once. I want to help you now. Maybe I am saving yours.” She looked over at Michelle and then back at Ritter. “Go, now. Hurry.”
Ritter drew her close, wrapping his strong arms around her, kissing her cheek. She shuddered in his grasp.
“He won’t get us, Melanie,” Ritter said soothingly. “Certainly not as easily as you got me the rainy night I jumped out of that airplane.” He smiled warmly, looking directly into her dark, uncertain eyes. She managed a cautious smile in reply, unable to stem the increased moisture in them.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I thought I had caught a German agent. Instead … I caught you. But, only for a little while.” She looked again at Michelle. “She is lovely. I wish you much happiness. Go now, there is not much time.” She pushed herself away from him. “The sooner you leave, the better.”
Michelle handed her cap to one of the men as Ritter passed the camper keys to the other. The two men slipped quietly out the side door. With a last longing glance at Ritter, Melanie turned and followed them.
Within a few seconds they heard the four cylinder camper engine turn over. With a sewing-machine roar it sped out of the parking lot down the drive and onto the highway. Another engine coughed into life, and with a squeal of tires it hurried after. Finally they heard Melanie’s car come to life, and crunching across the gravel it headed off.
The four of them walked out into the darkness. Metaxas motioned them toward a black four-door Mercedes. He and Khoury got in front. “The girl should stay down,” he instructed. Three men had driven in. It would not do to have four persons driving away.
Ritter and Michelle climbed in the back. Michelle lay down on the seat. They were all quiet, thinking of Melanie—and Voko.
“Your arrival was a very pleasant surprise,” Ritter said when they were some miles from Kozani. He was leaning forward to speak to Metaxas. “Frankly, we had written you off.”
“We were on our way to Thessalonica,” Metaxis said. “But as we drove through town, we saw an old friend. He asked us to have a drink. We did. By the time it ended, it was too late to go on, so we went home. My mother had thought to leave a note. An urgent call from Mr. Khoury. Needs help. I woke her up. She said you had called from the hotel in Kozani and asked that I come as soon as possible. A matter of life and death. I came as soon as I could.”
“We’re grateful,” said Michelle.
“Elias says you’re looking for something near the village of Mouzakion, not far from the Mitata Pass. The brother of my cousin’s wife lives there. He has a small farm where we have stored certain items in the past when we did not wish the authorities to know about them. The head man of the village is also known to us and is no friend of Voko’s. We will hide there a few days while they paint your camper. That should give you enough time to find what you are looking for.”
“Artifacts,” said Khoury easily. “Mr. Ritter is an antique dealer from New York. Miss Simonet is a scholar. They specialize in Mediterranean and Greek antiquities. They have learned that near the village are hidden some documents and artifacts relating to the Turkish conquest of Greece. They were left there in the late 1940’s by a group of archeologists and scholars who had a run-in with the local Communists. They hid the material to avoid it falling into Communists hands. As you can imagine, there is strong competition between museums and private collectors for this sort of material. It is feared Colonel Voko might be in contact with unscrupulous private dealers who would bid up the price, ensuring it will end up in private hands and not in a museum for all to share.”
“Why do you want to take it out of the country?”
Political reasons. Our sponsor wants to make a gift to the Greek government that will end any chance of the material falling into a private collection. Of course, it will also help his public standing and political position. You understand.”
“Of course,” said Metaxas.
The small mountain village of Mouzakion was shown on only the most detailed maps. It had no official charter or status and was so remote that few persons outside the immediate area had heard of it. There was a question of whether it even should be called a village. It was really little more than an insignificant collection of houses and farms inhabited by fewer than eighty people, giving it more sheep than human occupants. Its whitewashed dwellings and barns nestled in the crook of a mountain ridge not far below the Mitata Pass. The peaks of the dark mountains loomed above, alternately sheltering and threatening the village.
It was just after dawn when Metaxas drove into Mouzakion. White wood smoke drifted lazily out of chimneys, indicating the people were already stirring, but no one was out as they moved slowly through and pulled into the farm of Metaxas’ relative, Andreas Manglis.
Hearing the car outside, Andreas stepped out into the crisp morning air and invited the party in. Metaxas embraced and kissed him before making the introductions.
Like most Macedonian mountain men, Andreas was lean and hard. His heavy, frowning eyebrows and high-bridged nose provided a fierce shelter for his wary and reserved eyes. But his welcome was, if not effusive, genuinely warm. Immediately his hearty-looking wife, Chloe, came forward to ask who would have coffee. Her hair was lighter than his and still in a state of early-morning unkemptness. She was a pretty woman, in her middle twenty’s with a delicate jawbone and nostrils setting off her smooth cheeks, blue-gray eyes, and glowing skin. In her left arm she carried their thirteen-month-old son. These were simple, salt-of-the-earth people and their dwelling reflected as much about their personalities and life-styles as did their rough wool peasant garb.
A cheery fire crackled briskly in the blackened hearth, obviously the center of family life during the long, hard winters and cool early-spring months. The visitors were immediately greeted by an agreeable and pungent aroma of wood smoke, milk, tobacco, and goat hair. It was the same scent Ritter had known years ago, during his week with Melanie. A semi-circular arch appeared to support the large old wooden beams above them and the roughly plastered ceiling. The furniture consisted of several stools, a wooden table, and a loom with which the woman spun cloth. On the wall opposite the fireplace hung three small icons and several faded brown-and-white photographs of fierce-looking turbaned ancestors swathed in bandoliers and holding menacing-looking rifles. One of the men also had a large pistol in his belt. Two nineteenth-century-vintage rifles hung on the wall near the pictures.
“They are hiding from Voko,” said Metaxas.
Andreas spat into the fire. “I spit on Voko,” he said in Greek. Khoury translated the encouraging remark for Ritter and Michelle. As they took places around the warming fire on the black-and-red wool carpets, Andreas threw a new log onto it and his wife brought cups of thick, hot coffee.
Andreas spat again, somewhat theatrically. “Voko is a Kravarite.” Obviously not a compliment.
“I’ll explain,” said Khoury after translating. “Kravara is a region of Greece notorious for having produced generations of gypsylike beggars, theives, wanderers, rascals, and other no-goods. It has always been a poor region with little rain and few crops. The people had to find ways to feed themselves. The area got its evil reputation because some of the more desperate and unscrupulous beggars deliberately twisted the arms or legs of young children, permanently deforming them so they could increase their earnings as they wandered through Greece. Over the years ‘Kravarite’ has become a derogatory term for liar or charlatan. Which applies to Voko? You can take your choice.”
The woman brought plates of cheese and bread. “Manuri,” she said.
“Goat cheese,” translated Khoury. “A local specialty.”
Ritter and Michelle began eating in silence while the conversation swirled around them in Greek. He’d wanted a change, thought Ritter. Who could have imagined he’d end up sitting on the floor before the hearth of a Greek shepherd eating goat cheese at seven in the morning, trying to keep out of the clutches of a less-than-reputable police colonel? Unreal.
Khoury turned to them. “We’ve explained the antiquities problem,” he said, “and how it relates to Voko. Andreas was properly incensed. He is anxious to help. He is sure the headman will be also. It has been agreed that we will work at night and that only the people in this house and the headman will know what is going on. If the other villagers hear anything about our presence, as is possible, they will be told we are digging for artifacts in exchange for a payment to the village. It is common practice here. The woman will make a place for us in the back room. I’m afraid we’ll have to spend much of the daylight hours there. We will begin work tonight as soon as it’s dark. Once we’ve found what we’ve come for, Metaxas will take us to the camper.”
“What about the digging tools?” said Ritter. “They’re all in the camper.”
“Andreas is going to lend us each a skeparnia. It’s an all purpose Greek tool with a curved blade they use for hacking or cutting. The Greeks have been using them since biblical times, so I’m sure they’ll be all right. In English, you would call one an ade.”
“I’ll be going now,” said Metaxas. “I’ll return tonight to help where I can.”
“See you then,” said Ritter. Michelle nodded, and Khoury walked with him to the door.
“Chloe has laid out some makeshift beds,” Khoury said as he walked back. “We might as well get some rest. It’s not a good idea to hang around in this room too late in the morning. A nosy neighbor could drop in and want to know who the strangers are and what they are up to.”
“Ah, the Mouzakion Hilton,” Ritter said as they entered the dusty storeroom that had been made up for them. Andreas’ wife had placed blankets on the floor over sheep and goatskins. Not a luxurious accommodation, but warm, dry, and, for the moment, secure. “Reminds me of some of the places I stayed in years ago in South America.”
“Reminds me of places I’ve tried to avoid staying in,” sniffed Khoury. “But under the circumstances, I won’t bother with a complaint to the management.”
“Not at these rates,” said Michelle. “We’ll have to send a recommendation to one of the guidebooks. By the way, how did you think up the story about the artifacts?”
“It would have been unwise to tell even Metaxas the truth. It could slip out or cause troubles we don’t need. Surely we’ve had enough problems.”
“More than enough,” said Ritter.