The Alpha Deception (12 page)

“No,” Stadipopolis said. “You must leave with something. Money must change hands. If I’m being watched, it would look strange if it didn’t.”

“Might look stranger if it did.”

“Please! Just to be safe.”

McCracken handed over a twenty-dollar bill and grabbed the much-disputed vase. “Got just the place for this… .”

“But—”

Blaine was on his way for the door. “Ten o’clock tonight, Kapo, in that cemetery. You set the rules. Just don’t break them.”

And the windchimes tumbled against each other once more.

Outside, across the street from Kapo’s, a legless beggar who had been pushing himself along on a skate-wheel platform stopped suddenly. His eyes had to be deceiving him. He had to get a closer look. He tried to better his view of the man who had just stepped out of the antique store, but the flow of pedestrian traffic was too thick, forcing the beggar to risk a quick slide through moving traffic in the street.

Pedestrians lurched aside and cars were brought to grinding halts. He reached the other side of the street and caught one glimpse of the shrinking figure, then pushed himself through the door of a fruit market. A customer and his bag went reeling. A basket of oranges toppled to the floor.

The beggar didn’t stop.

“Your phone, Andros!” he screamed when he was halfway across the floor. “Hand it to me quick!”

The befuddled proprietor pried the receiver from its hook and lowered it to the beggar.

“Now, dial this number! Come on, get ready!”

Andros dialed the number the beggar recited. The ringing started, stopped.

“I must speak with Vasquez,” the beggar told the man who answered.

Chapter 11

KAPO STADIPOPOLIS HUMMED
to himself for distraction as a second minute ticked past ten o’clock. He’d been waiting as planned by the Tomb of Dionysios of Kollytos since five minutes of, and there was no sign of the American. Good. Maybe he wouldn’t show up. Stadipopolis wouldn’t be surprised if he was dead.

The Greek tried to light a cigarette but the stiff night breeze thwarted him. After a half dozen tries he gave up, returned to his humming, and wrapped his jacketed arms about himself to ward off the chill. Behind him the white stone bull, symbol of Dionysios, perched atop twin pillars. It seemed ready to pounce.

Stadipopolis kept humming, the only sound in the Kerameikos Cemetery.

“Boo,” whispered a voice in his ear as an iron finger poked him like a gun in the back.

Stadipopolis swung around in utter surprise. “You want to give me heart attack, American?”

“You were making enough noise to wake the dead.” Blaine glanced around him. “Literally.”

“You’re late,” the Greek managed, steadying himself.

“Hardly. Been here since just after eight. Had to make sure you weren’t planning anything.”

“You don’t trust me?” Stadipopolis seemed offended.

“I don’t trust anyone until they give me a reason to.”

“We must be quick.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

Blaine thought Kerameikos Cemetery a good choice for the meeting. It was more a testament to the past than the dead and was popular among tourists for good reason. The cemetery contained the excavated remains of the old Kerameikos quarter of Athens, along with monuments to great figures dating from the sub-Mycenean period to late antiquity. Within the excavated portions no two tombs were alike.

The cemetery was cut into sections by serpentine walkways which made it seem larger than it was. Just enough excavation had been performed to avoid clutter and promote atmosphere among the testaments to Greek history. The tomb of Dionysios was located due north from the Kerameikos Museum on the Pireos Street side. Just south of the gate through which McCracken had entered lay the Agora, the old market at the foot of the steep grassy hillside which led up to the famed Acropolis.

“You understand my meeting you might mean my death,” Stadipopolis said fearfully.

“And not meeting me would have assured it.”

The night was lit by a half moon, and the Greek moved back into the shadow cast by the ceramic bull atop the tomb.

“I want to know everything you do about the crystals,” Blaine told him. “And I want it from the beginning.”

“The beginning in this case is difficult to pin down. Before the dawn of civilization as we know it.”

“Spare me the history lesson, and let’s start with how you came to be in possession of the crystals.”

“They were stolen from a man of great power. He is called the Lion of Crete. He is mad, but nobody dares cross him.”

“What’s his name?”

“He goes by many. The closest to the truth is Megilido Fass.”

“So you stole the crystals from him and then shipped them to Earnst… .”

“No!” Stadipopolis insisted, drawing back against a pillar. “This I tell you, American, for the sake of my children, I would never dare cross a man like Megilido Fass. He has his own villa in the southwest of Crete, big as a town they say. People have been known to go there and never return. Boys mostly.”

“Boys?”

The Greek nodded reluctantly. “Wealth has its luxuries, among them being the ability to indulge in whatever … pleasure suits you at the time. Fass is free to do as he wishes. As I said, no one ever crosses him, and that includes the authorities.” He made a spitting motion. “Worthless pigs that they are. Corruption is their middle name in these parts.”

“Not just in these parts, Greek. All right, so it was Fass who was originally in possession of these crystals. Then he was robbed.”

Stadipopolis nodded. “On a dare, a foolish one. A young man whose family had been wronged by the heathen vowed revenge and was coaxed on by his friends. He intercepted a shipment from Fass bound for Morocco. The crystals were among it.”

“And where do you come in?”

“How do you say, American—that in this city I am known as a man who can move merchandise that might burn one’s hand. The foolish young man brought the stolen goods to me. I purchased them for a reasonable price, of course not knowing their source.”

“Of course.”

“Had I … well, no call for such speculating. To turn a profit and avoid entanglements, I wished to move the gems quickly. Through America, as always.”

“And Erich Earnst.”

“Exactly. The crystals were of special interest to me because I had never seen anything like them before… .”

“Just what Earnst said.”

“They were … mesmerizing.”

“Something obviously made you request that Earnst return them to you after you sent them along.”

“I tell you this, American. My dealings with Earnst over the years were never anything but profitable. He was a man of honor and integrity.”

“But that didn’t stop you from asking for the crystals back.”

“I had no choice. A few weeks after I mailed the shipment, men came to my shop. They were well known in the Square as hired hands of Fass. They were very polite, sickeningly polite. They even purchased several items. Then they asked about the crystals. Since I knew there was no way they could know for sure that I had brokered them, of course I denied ever having seen them. They smiled and left peacefully, asking me to please contact them if I heard any talk.”

“But they still spooked you.”

Stadipopolis swallowed hard. “Not then. It was a week later. The men returned to my shop just as polite as the first time. One was holding a box in his hand and I thought they had come just to return the merchandise they had purchased, perhaps even realize a small profit on the deal I would have been all too happy to grant. They told me to open the box.” The Greek stopped, as if he had to force himself to go on. “There was a head in the box, a head belonging to the boy who had robbed Megilido Fass and then sold his booty to me.”

“So you told them about Earnst.”

“No, American, I didn’t. I would have, had they left the box containing the boy’s head with me.”

“What’s the difference?”

“The fact that they took it with them showed me they weren’t sure I was the one who had brokered the crystals. They were showing it all around the city to men like myself, waiting for one of us to break. Fass is an awful man but not prone to making unnecessary enemies in Athens. It would not suit his needs.”

“Then Fass knew nothing about Earnst.”

“He couldn’t have. If he had, Earnst would have been dead months ago and the crystals stolen back.”

“Except they were stolen … by someone else.”

“Yes,” said Stadipopolis knowingly, “and the fact that one of them is in your possession indicates you are working for that party.”

“Working with, not for.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

“Then let me tell you what matters to me, American. You are here searching for more of these crystals because this party has discovered their potential as a power source.”

Stadipopolis’s statement took Blaine totally by surprise. He fought not to show it. How could this man have known?

“Might be a handsome profit involved for the man who helps us locate the reserves.”

“The reserves should be buried forever, along with the rest of the crystals you possess.” The Greek’s voice was strained.

“No more riddles. I’m sick of them. What are these crystals?”

“Death has followed them everywhere, always. I didn’t know. If I had—”

McCracken reached out and grabbed a fistful of Stadipopolis’s shirt. “
What
are they?”

The Greek’s lips quivered. “Their origins I learned later, too late. They are the product of myth.”

“People don’t get killed for myths.”

“This myth may well turn out to be real.” And he swallowed as much air as McCracken’s squeeze allowed him. “Atlantis,” he said.

It took a few seconds for Stadipopolis’s words to sink in.

“Wait a minute,” Blaine responded, releasing his hold. “Atlantis, as in the island that sank into the sea?”

“The very same.”

“I came here for truth,” McCracken snapped. “Not phony mythology.”

“Truth, American, is a matter of perspective. Mine changed when I found a link I could not dismiss. Many believe that the people of Atlantis harnessed the sun to create a power stronger than atomic energy. They accomplished this by using a ruby-red crystal to store vast amounts of the sun’s energy for later use.
Ruby red!
You’ve seen it. You possess it!”

“And you’re going to help me find more.”

“No! Atlantis destroyed itself by abusing the power of its crystals. They tried to use them as
weapons.
I have read about this. And now I hear you tell me in so many words, American, that someone you represent is doing it again. Trying to harness the power of something man was never meant to uncover, never meant to—”

“Wait! Quiet!”

“Why do—”

“I said quiet!” Blaine rasped.

He had heard something, a boot kicking pebbles. Then more sounds, soft thuds of car doors closing gently.

Blaine’s eyes swung about him. The various tombs and monuments blocked his view of the nearby roads.

Where were they, damnit? Where?

The sounds stopped, which wasn’t a good sign, for it meant whoever it was had drawn close enough to be satisfied. Blaine thought of New York. Perhaps the same party was behind the men on 47th Street. Or perhaps they’d been sent by Fass.

Stadipopolis came a little forward. “American, what is it? What’s wrong?”

McCracken yanked his gun free of its holster. “Stay out of the light!”

“I’m not about to—”

“I said
stay out—
”

It was too late. The gunshots had begun.

Chapter 12

MCCRACKEN HAD ALREADY
hit the ground when Kapo Stadipopolis’s face vanished. Blood and bone splattered everywhere, splashing up against a white stone pillar. The Greek’s corpse struck dirt an instant after Blaine plunged to the ground.

More shots echoed through the cemetery air. Footsteps pounded earth, coming closer. McCracken thought fast. The darkness was his ally. All the killers would have seen after firing their burst was two bodies going down; it would have been impossible to tell if they had been hit or not. Blaine hugged the ground and began to crawl away, pushing with his elbows, around the back of Dionysios’s tomb.

Two men in black rushed out of the darkness into the circle of light cast by one of the floodlights. McCracken fired and one gasped and crumbled. The other dove behind the cover of a monument. He called out for help, and Blaine recognized the language.

It was Russian!

Cars screeched forward on the nearby street. More doors pounded solidly. Footsteps smacked cement and then hard ground. If McCracken was going to move, it had to be now.

In the next instant, he was on his feet. The gunman behind the monument fired his automatic rifle at Blaine as he ran, and Blaine returned the fire with random shots to keep the man at bay. Blaine passed behind another tomb, a larger one with DEXILEOS chiseled in huge letters. He emerged on the other side to a new volley of staccato bursts and chips of ancient marble flying into his face. Again Blaine dove, firing at shadows in the darkness. His pistol clicked on an empty chamber and he rolled aside to snap a fresh clip home.

He was under cover now, but the sound of the nearby traffic confused him and made it hard to judge the number and proximity of the whispering voices.

Russians, goddamnit, Russians!

But sent by whom?

Blaine pulled himself through the slick grass, using the floodlit Acropolis above as a landmark to guide him. His problem was not to defend himself but to escape. He could kill plenty of the enemy, but each bullet used would attract more live ones. Eventually they’d have him. It was inevitable. He kept crawling.

The voices around him grew louder as his pursuers grew more impatient. Each second he evaded them would work in his favor. With the increased possibility that their quarry might escape, desperation, and with it carelessness, would set in.

Blaine stopped behind a smaller row of tombs just before Sacred Way, which divides Kerameikos Cemetery in two. Looking up, he saw they housed among others, Pythagoras. Strange, he mused, that the slightest error on his part now and he would die atop the Greek father of precise mathematics. His plan was not yet formed. The point was now to just keep moving.