24

“Well, for fuck’s sake, wake him up,” bellowed Zakros. His vast stomach quivered as he shouted into the phone.

“But it’s very unusual,” said the uncertain voice on the other end of the line. After all, it was just after five in the morning. Waking up the captain at this hour was not the sort of thing the men lined up for.

“This call is officially made on behalf of Colonel Georges Voko,” threatened Zakros. “If the captain hasn’t called me back within five minutes, you’ll be lucky if you get to spend the rest of your career on the Bulgarian border.”

“Yes, sir,” trembled the voice.

Zakros slammed down the phone. He didn’t have the authority to order police personnel around, but he was becoming increasingly apprehensive, alarmed that something bad really had happened to Voko. He had to find out. For without Voko, without the implied power of the gun behind him, his own position as prefect was in jeopardy. He had made many enemies over the years. He knew it was only because of Voko’s enormous power that he retained his position and own power. Without Voko he was vulnerable. In fact, without Voko, his life could even be in danger.

Voko had now been out of touch some thirty-six hours. There was no question something had happened. Zakros’ fears were momentarily eased when he learned that the body found at Orthovouni was not the colonel’s. The man had been identified by local police as one Dimitri Metaxas. The files revealed he was actively involved with the Cypriot EOKA-B movement and had been connected with a number of other gray activities. The police report showed he died of suffocation by paint. Large amounts clogged his nose and mouth, blocking the passage to his lungs. A brutal murder.

Zakros had no doubt the body had been dumped by Khoury, Ritter, and the woman and they were headed for Italy with the gold. After more telephone checks, he located the Igoumenitsa ferryboat operator, who confirmed that he had carried an American, a Greek, and a good-looking woman to Corfu on the last run of the evening. No, he hadn’t noticed anything suspicious about them—except maybe for the smell of fresh lacquer on the camper. Otherwise, all he could say was that they looked a bit more tired and dirty than most tourists, except for hippies of course.

Finally, just before five a.m., Zakros got through to immigration at Corfu. The sleepy-voiced duty officer said that Khoury, Ritter and Miss Simonet had sailed for Brindisi aboard the Carissa at 2300. It was due to dock in less than an hour.

Not much time. The Italian police were only a call away, but it was not that simple. Thus far, Zakros realized, the evidence against the foreigners was only circumstantial. The shepherd who saw the body dumped was unable to provide any real descriptions or make any sort of identification other than to say he thought he saw three persons, probably two men and a woman. He couldn’t remember the color of the vehicle; gray or brown—maybe. This alone was not enough to hold them, particularly outside Zakros’ immediate area. He still needed something to connect them directly with Metaxas. But they certainly held the key to Voko and, of course, the gold. He had to find a way to hold them, to get them returned to Greece.

Metaxas’ family was finally traced to Veria. They said they hadn’t seen him in nearly three days. They suggested a check at Trikala, where Dimitri often visited with his cousin. He had mentioned something a few days ago about visiting this relative.

Zakros was now waiting for the police captain at Trikala to call him. Dammit. Why was that imbecile taking so long? In half an hour the boat would dock and they would slip out of his grasp forever. So would the gold.

The phone finally rang. A very grumpy voice. “This is Makri. What is it?”

Zakros, again invoking the name of Voko, explained they needed a quick check with Metaxas’ cousin to see if he had seen Dimitri in the past day. He described Metaxas’ death. It was very important. He hinted state security might be involved. The captain promised to check and call back.

The minutes shot by. It was already six o’clock. Time was running out. A feeling of panic swelled in his enormous belly. For a change Zakros was not hungry.

He grabbed the phone as it rang again.

“Makri here.”

“Well?” Zakros demanded.

“We talked with Metaxas’ cousin. Said he hasn’t seen Metaxas in a week. Wondered why we were asking. Was obviously evading the question. I told him about the discovery of Metaxas’ body. When I mentioned the paint, he suddenly went into hysterics. Started screaming about three foreigners. What color was the paint on Metaxas’ face?”

“Let me check.” Zakros looked at his notes to be sure. “Tan.”

“That’s it.”

Zakros quickly rang off. He had them. Metaxas’ cousin could tie it all together. He called the international operator. It was official and most urgent. He must speak with Italian immigration police at Brindisi. It was already twenty minutes after six. God, he had them, if they hadn’t already slipped through.

The boat’s car park was sealed off to all passengers until fifteen minutes before docking at Brindisi. As soon as the doors to the hold opened, Ritter and Michelle dashed to the camper. Using a wire coat hanger, Ritter tried to jigger open the door by forcing it through the edge of the window, trying to pull open the inside door handle. Khoury had mentioned something about hiding an extra key somewhere inside the camper. If they could just open the door without attracting any attention, they could search for it. But the last thing they needed was a lot of friendly, curious Greek seamen climbing over the camper helping them, perhaps even thinking to inquire where their companion was. Or asking what was in the boxes. Ritter’s brow sweated as he struggled with the coat hanger. Car thieves never had any trouble.

A young ship’s officer walked over to them. “A problem?”

“Locked the keys in the camper.” Ritter provided his most embarrassed what-an-ass-I-am grin.

“Happens more often than you would think,” assured the young man. “Just a minute. I’ll get some help.”

“No… it’s … Please don’t go to any trouble.”

“No bother,” said the man. “This has happened before. We’re ready for it.”

Ritter was still fishing with the coat hanger and considering breaking the glass when the young officer returned. A small crowd gathered to watch. One woman was peering in the back window of the vehicle. Thankfully, a drawn curtain blocked her view of the boxes. The boat was slowing noticeably; they would be docking shortly. The officer had a large ring of keys. He tried one. Didn’t work. Nor did a second. Or a third. Or a fourth. He inserted a fifth. The button on the inside of the door popped up.

“Oh, thank you,” gushed Michelle. The expression of gratitude in her voice was genuine.

“My duty, miss.” He saluted and walked off. The crowd moved off to their own vehicles.

“Now, Khoury’s extra key,” muttered Ritter. They scrambled inside and began searching.. The big boat shuddered to a halt. The large doors at the end swung open. Cars in front of them and behind them switched on their ignitions, anxious to get away. The cars in front of them roared off. The man behind, an Italian, beeped. Michelle was on the floor of the camper searching under the dashboard. Ritter leaned out and shrugged. A universal gesture—camper won’t start. The young officer was walking back toward them. The cars behind beeped impatiently. If they couldn’t… “Found it,” shouted Michelle. Joy. Under the floor mat.

“It’s okay, officer. I dropped the key. Thanks very much for your help.” Ritter waved, started the camper, and they drove out to face Italian customs.

Inspector Giovanni Bussino had just reported for duty. He really shouldn’t have come to work at all. Not only was it his day off, but his wife was suffering from an infected foot and having trouble getting around the house looking after their hyperactive two-year-old son. But two members of the staff were sick and two others were on vacation. Someone had to cover the shift. Bussino scratched his pudgy face and looked in the cracked mirror as he washed his hands in the bathroom. Porca miseria. What conditions they had to work in. A real dump. Just look at the place. Filthy. People in private business didn’t have to work under these conditions. Just civil servants. It wasn’t fair.

He raised his head at the sound of cars. The ferry from Greece had docked. The first cars were rolling off with the usual tourists and business people. Brindisi customs was among the quieter posts. They kept a sharp eye out for American and European youths smuggling drugs in from Greece, businessmen who tried to cross with excessive amounts of cigarettes and liquor or untaxed goods, and truckers. Occasionally they could look forward to the seizure of a good supply of pornography. The magazines had great resell value on the black market, and Bussino was rather proud of his own growing collection. Generally, however, there was not much. But it was a job. The pay was steady and the pension would be adequate. Above all, with the payoffs from businessmen who wanted to avoid customs duties, he had been able to nearly pay for his farm overlooking the sea at Taranto on the instep of the heel. In fifteen years he could look forward to quiet retirement in relative comfort.

Bussino yawned. It was nearly a quarter after six. He still hadn’t adjusted to getting up so early in the morning. Even after all these years, he hated to draw the early-morning shift. Even the sleepy overnights were better.

Bussino straightened his olive-colored uniform, patted his trim mustache in an approving way, and winked at himself. As he stepped out of the bathroom, a junior inspector called.

“Signore Bussino. Come quickly. Something special.”

Madonna. Probably some kids trying to sneak marijuana in a knapsack. He hated to see them go off to jail, but it was his duty. “What is it this time?”

“Two Americans, signore. They have a special declaration to make.”

He walked out to the vehicle-inspection shed. A sandy-haired man who looked like an American and a pretty woman who didn’t were standing by a camper with Greek plates.

“May I help you?” asked Inspector Bussino. He made a small courteous bow in Michelle’s direction.

“We would like to declare some gold,” said Ritter matter-of-factly.

“Certainly, signore. How much is it?” Bussino expected to be shown a box of coins or perhaps a few small bars. It was not illegal to bring gold into Italy as long as it was properly declared and registered.

“It will have to be counted and weighed so there will be no mistake,” said Ritter.

“Where it is, Signore?”

“Here.” Ritter opened the back of the camper and pointed to five fairly large metal boxes.

Inspector Bussino stifled a gasp as Ritter opened the chests, Madonna. Millions and millions in lire in gold bars and coins. More money than he had ever seen. A treasure for a pope. For a moment he was speechless.

Ritter stood patiently as the inspector gawked at the gold trying to retain his composure.

“Yes, well … We’ll have to move the boxes into the office for the counting,” said the inspector finally. He snapped his fingers and a junior officer hastened over. “Help the signore move these into my office,” he said in Italian.

One by one, Ritter, the young inspector, and Michelle lugged the heavy boxes into the office. Bussino, his Italian sense of manhood and chivalry offended by the sight of Michelle doing such heavy work, attempted to stop her. “No, no, signora,” he pleaded. “We’ll get someone else to help.”

“Thank you, signore,” she said. “I can do it. I insist.” Bussino was not offended enough to step in and help himself. He nodded in a respectful way. The boxes were moved.

Bussino fumbled through one of the file cabinets searching for the proper forms, which he located after a good deal of paper throwing, cursing, and accusations aimed at his staff about their filing procedures.

The count began. It was hard to estimate, but Bussino guessed there might be as much as two billion lire worth of gold before him. Staggering. Halfway through the count of the second box, the phone rang. The aide helping with the count answered. “For you signore. Greek police.”

Giovanni Bussino was not a particularly intelligent man, but he was no fool either. It was obvious the Americans had brought the gold out of Greece illegally. It had to be so, because it was a violation of Greek law to take large amounts of gold bullion or coins out of the country. It was not clear how the man had acquired it, but technically that did not concern him. It was not against the law to bring the gold into Italy, and unless there was some official charge or complaint from the Greeks, he was not in a position to refuse to register gold.

Thus the call from Greece did not surprise him. One just didn’t leave a country with that kind of treasure without someone saying something about it. The caller, in accented English, identified himself as a prefect somewhere in Macedonia. Christofos Zakros, he said, calling on behalf of the Macedonian Gendarmarie. He wanted to alert the Italian authorities to the expected arrival of two Americans—a man and a woman—and a Lebanese. They were travelling in a tan Volkswagen camper with Greek registration. It was possible they were carrying boxes that belonged to the Greek government. They were wanted on suspicion of murder.

Bussino excused himself and stepped into another office to complete the call.

Ritter tried to continue the count, pretending he had no idea of what was going on. He maintained a deadpan expression as a herd of elephants stampeded across the pit of his stomach. He glanced at Michelle. She smiled reassuringly and continued the count as the aide registered and double-checked each bar.

In the next office, Bussino picked up the phone. “Who are these people?” he asked.

“The American is called Ritter,” said Zakros. “The woman’s name is Simonet. The other man is Khoury. They should be on the ferry from Corfu.”

“What is the charge against them?”

“Murder of a Greek national.”

“A serious charge, signore. Do you have a warrant for their arrest?”

“Uhh, no, not yet. But we are working on one.”

“What is this about boxes?”

“The boxes contain, ah, items that belong to the Greek people.”

“Items?”

“Yes, uh, some gold artifacts and other antiquities that belong to Greece. They have great cultural and historical value.”

Yes, thought Bussino. Great historical value indeed. Bussino’s mind turned over as fast as it would go. He was no human computer, but the picture was clear enough. There was no Lebanese, but these were definitely the people the Greek was seeking. He claimed they were wanted for murder but did not yet have an official warrant. That meant there was not yet a formal charge. But if the Americans were detained now, the Greeks would have no trouble coming up with one. And if they were detained, the boxes would have to be returned to Greece with the Americans. Returning the boxes to Greece was not exactly what Giovanni Bussino had in mind.

“Just a momento, signore, let me check. Many vehicles have already passed through from the boat. It docked a bit early.” Bussino put down the phone and wandered out of the room to the inspection shed. He glanced around, waited a proper interval, then returned to the phone.

“Hello, signore. There was no sign of any Lebanese, but two Americans went through about fifteen minutes ago. They drove out via the green alley, meaning they had no declaration to make. They were routinely waved through, as are most tourists.”

Missed them. Zakros cursed his bad luck. “Can you catch them?” he asked anxiously. His feelings showed in his voice.

“I am afraid it would be nearly impossible, signore. We have no facility for that here. This is a simple customs post. Now they are past, you will have to place such a request through Rome.”

Delay. The deadliest form of denial. Zakros sensed it, but could do nothing about it. He could try to contact Rome through normal Interpol channels, but it would take time, and because it was clearly beyond his authority, would involve officials in Athens. It was all over.

In frustration and rage, Zakros hung up. He did not hear Bussino’s parting comment. “I’m sorry I cannot help you, signore.”

Bussino would see the gold count was speeded up and finished as quickly as possible. Then he would see his copy of the registration form never made it into the files. The aide involved in the count, properly looked after, would forget there had ever been such an incident, and he would not discuss it with the others. Bussino picked the phone up. He had to reach his brother Mario as soon as possible.

* * *

“You see, the Italians are not as bureaucratic as you feared,” said Michelle. “The man could not have been any nicer or more efficient.”

“I know,” said Ritter. “It bothers me.”

“You mean the call from Greece?”

“That too.”

“You thought maybe it was the police or that pig Zakros?”

“I was scared for a minute. I’m still not sure. The customs guy seemed much friendlier, much more accommodating after the phone call. As though there was a connection.”

“You could be right. But is it possible he just respected so much wealth? Or maybe he was a typical, friendly, warm-hearted Italian?”

“Not a customs inspector. Not anywhere in the world.”

“Well, let’s not worry about it. One more border to cross and it’s all behind us. The worst is already past.” She waved the customs form and put it back in her handbag. “Our ticket to Switzerland and home.”

“It is beautiful,” admitted Ritter. “Almost as beautiful as your bottom.”

“That’s the Brian I love.”

It slipped out before she realized it. She hadn’t meant to say it. But it was out.

Ritter reached one hand over and placed it high up on her thigh. A loving squeeze. “I didn’t think you were the type to fall for an aging treasure hunter with an uncertain future.”

“I’m not that concerned about your future. But I’ve always had a thing about aging treasure hunters. I just never got around to telling you.”

“How can I be sure you’re just not another treasure-hunter groupie?”

“What groupie did you ever know that didn’t mind spending her nights digging in the cold rain and sharing sleeping accommodations with a sneaky Greek-Lebanese?”

He moved his hand the rest of the way up her thigh and gave another squeeze.

They had been cruising along the autostrada toward Naples for over an hour when he first noticed the red Fiat behind them. The car suddenly appeared from nowhere, obviously having approached at high speed and then positioned itself about a quarter of a mile behind them. The Fiat had remained in that position for almost forty-five minutes. The camper was doing fifty-five miles an hour. No Italian with a sporty red Fiat drove only fifty-five on the autostrada.

“I think we’ve got company,” he said finally.

“Hmmm?”

“A car behind us. Red Fiat I think they’re following us.”

“Maybe a car full of treasure-hunter groupies,” she said, twisting her head around. She stared through the back window for a few minutes. “But I never heard of boy groupies for a guy like you.”

“Exactly.”

“Pals of the customs man?”

“Maybe. We’ll stop at the next gas station and tank up. See what happens. If they are following us, I doubt they’ll try anything there.”

The stop produced the result Ritter expected. The Red Fiat pulled into the rest area and lingered while they filled the tank. Four men inside appeared to take no notice of them. One got out and went through the motions of relieving himself by the side of the rest area. Under other circumstances, Ritter and Michelle would never have given them a second glance. As Ritter pulled back onto the autostrada, the Fiat resumed its position about a quarter of a mile behind them.

“No question,” said Ritter. “Just waiting for the right chance. Perhaps for dark, or hoping we’ll stop where they can get a crack at us.”

“Maybe we could lose them off the autostrada,” said Michelle. “We obviously can’t outrun them in this thing.”

Ritter grunted affirmatively. After some discussion and a look at the map, they decided to go off the autostrada into one of the adjacent towns and try to lose the Fiat in urban traffic. The town was not overly large, but it seemed it would be large enough for their purposes. Then they could find a less obvious route north and lose the Fiat forever.

Ritter quickly discovered it wasn’t that easy. The driver of the Fiat was aggressive and skillful. His car was also much faster and more maneuverable in traffic. After nearly twenty five hectic minutes of cat-and-mouse through the town, it was clear to Ritter he wouldn’t be able to shake them off so easily. The Fiat driver ran red lights when he had to, once ran up onto the sidewalk, and generally stayed close behind. By now, the chase was obvious to both parties. Each knew the other knew. Ritter guided the camper out of town and onto a road that led to the surrounding hills. The Fiat dropped back, waiting for the false move that would provide the shot for the hunters.

The red car maintained its distance as they wound their way upward. The road was narrow, as Ritter hoped. The shoulders were uncertain, inadequate. The dropoffs on the sides were becoming steeper and more perilous.

“Let’s try it now,” Ritter jammed the accelerator to the floor and raced the camper down a small hill as fast as he could, building up speed, tearing into a turn, and then dashing up the next rise, obviously making an attempt to lose the Fiat. The other driver reacted predictably. No camper could outrun a Fiat driven by Mario Bussino on these roads. He would show them.

The more powerful Fiat closed the gap quickly, roaring up behind the camper. Ritter swerved into the middle of the road to block them from overtaking—a clear challenge. One of the men was waving a pistol; they were probably all armed. Michelle rolled back the sun roof. The Fiat tried again to overtake them, but this time Ritter made only a minor attempt to block the pass. The Fiat roared up alongside. A single point-blank shot from the man seated next to the driver would be enough to stop Ritter and the camper.

The men in the Fiat didn’t notice Michelle creeping through the sun roof. The red car was running flat out in second gear now, directly alongside. A pistol aimed at Ritter thrust through the window.

Michelle hurled the heavy jack in her hand. It crashed through the Fiat’s windshield, smashing the glass and Mario Bussino’s forehead. His hands flew off the steering wheel, clutching his shattered face. The Fiat swerved unsteadily, bounced against the camper, and then careened off, pitching over the other side of the road into the valley below.

“Jesus,” said Ritter, rubbing his hand over his head, pushing the sweat away from his forehead. Michelle dropped back down into the camper. She said nothing. There was nothing to say.

Shortly after midnight, Ritter and Michelle crossed safely and without incident into Switzerland. Glancing at their American passports, the sleepy Italian customs officer on duty, anxious to get back into his warm shack, waved them through. He showed no interest in the camper. Ironically, they didn’t need the gold-declaration form. A more alert Swiss officer checked their passport pictures against their faces, and they were in.

Suddenly the exhaustion of the past week caught up to them. Michelle brushed away moisture collecting in her eyes. Ritter ached in every bone. The road to Geneva was covered in relative silence. It was early Sunday morning when they rolled into Geneva and checked into their hotel. The place had an underground garage where they could park the camper in relative safety until the banks opened Monday morning.

The window curtains were tightly pulled shut so no one could peer into the vehicle. They locked it, double-checked all the locks, and headed up to their room overlooking Lake Geneva.

Little needed to be said. As he kicked off his shoes, Ritter reached into a small refrigerator bar in the room and liberated a bottle of champagne. The pop of the cork was very much a victory sound, an expression of celebration and success. He poured them each a glass. It was a good moment.

Michelle raised the glass to her face, letting the bubbles spray refreshingly onto her upper lip and nose. They had done it.

“To the last dig of my life,” said Ritter. “And all future dives.”

“To the end of the retsina days,” she responded. They laughed and drank, first the champagne, then each other. For the first time since leaving Thessalonica, they fell into each other’s arms in comfort and joy. The pressure was off, the reward in their hands, eyes, mouths and hearts. There was nothing to do until the banks opened Monday morning but enjoy themselves and each other and sleep.

* * *

Ritter blinked and opened his eyes. His arm flapped expectantly across the bed. The other side was empty. He sat up. The room was dark, but the bright edges around the curtains indicated it was daylight. Ritter yawned, stretched his arms and torso, and forced himself out of bed. He pulled open the curtains and looked out over the lake to the snow-capped mountains beyond. It was going to be a beautiful Monday morning. He had rarely felt so refreshed.

“Michelle,” he called. Probably in the bathroom. There was no answer. He walked over to the bathroom door and knocked. “Hey, beautiful, come out of there. Let somebody else use it.” No answer. He pushed open the door. She was not there.

Probably gone for a walk or to get a paper. That was when he saw the note propped on the mirror.

He picked it up and read, numbly:

“Brian, I’m sorry, but the boxes do not belong to you. They were a secret Lend-Lease allocation meant for Greek partisans. The government sent me to find them. And so I did. I hadn’t counted on finding you. Please try to forgive me. M.”

Cursing silently, Ritter quickly pulled on a pair of jeans, a shirt, and shoes and rushed to the elevators. An eternity later the doors slid apart in the garage, revealing the obvious. The camper was gone.