The Green Lama: Unbound (The Green Lama Legacy Book 3) (12 page)

But not before he killed Ken first. Watching the actor work undercover was a grating experience at best. For all his bluster the boy was clearly over his head, but here they were, dressed up like a couple of dime store pirates so they could… do what, exactly? Find out what happened to Jean? See if anyone knew about this ‘Kookookachoo’ monster? Caraway shook his head. All this supernatural hocus-pocus mumbo-jumbo was beginning to get to him, and if this was really tied to Brickman’s golem and the creatures from the
Bartlett
… What he wouldn’t give for a simple fistfight right now.

“American, yes?” a woman said behind him.

Caraway turned begrudgingly on his barstool to find himself face-toface with one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. She was slender, dressed in a simple yet attractive dress that showed off her figure while revealing nothing. Her raven hair was pulled back into a ponytail, a thin strand hanging over her left eye. She took a slow drag of her cigarette before she reiterated: “ American, yes?”

“Yes,” Caraway replied, unintentionally dropping his cover. “How could you tell?”

“The slouch. Americans always slouch when they drink, like they are lifting heavy weights.”

Caraway ran his eye up and down her arched back. “And I take it you’re not American?”

“Is my accent that bad?”

“It’s pretty noticeable,” he said with a crooked smile.

“Pity. You would think with all the Limeys and Yankees passing through here I would have at least picked up the accent.” She eyed Caraway as she took another drag of her cigarette. “So, are you going to offer me a drink or am I going to have to ask myself?”

“You’re on your own, sweetheart. I don’t speak a lick of Greek and the bartender over there doesn’t seem to understand a drop of English.”

“Iapetos, µ ορεί εσείς να δ σει σε ένα κορίτσι ένα οτό?” the woman called. The bartender rolled his eyes as he poured her a glass of whiskey and slid it over. Deftly catching the glass, she gulped down the amber liquid in a single swig. Caraway had to admit he was impressed. “So, you are with the Limey?” she asked indicating Ken with wave of her cigarette.

“Billy Shakespeare over there?” Caraway said with a frustrated smile. “Yeah, I’m with him. Not that I have much choice.”

She frowned, considering Ken as he chatted endlessly with Petros. “He likes to talk.”

Caraway laughed. “You noticed that too, eh? Loves the sound of his own voice.”

Her lips subtly curled at the corners. “What is your name, American?” she asked with a cloud of smoke.

“John,” Caraway said, raising his glass.

“Pleasure to meet you, John. Sotiria,” she said with a nod. “What brings you to the beautiful rock of Samothrace?”

“Work, as in lack of and searching for.”

Sotiria tilted her head. “Bad time to be looking for work, no?”

Caraway shrugged. “Not like we have much choice.”

Sotiria breathed in smoke. “No, I suppose we do not,” she said quietly.

“Pretty crowded for this time of day, isn’t it?”

Sotiria looked over the mass of people crowding the bar. “Yes, it should be slower, but then again, we all have something in common.”

“And what’s that?”

“Work, as in lack of and searching for.”

“Don’t tell me you worked the docks like these creeps,” he said indicating the riffraff behind him.

Sotiria raised an eyebrow at him. “I think I should take some offense at that, John.”

“I didn’t mean to imply—”

“None of these men are creeps. Except for those over there,” she said, indicating a particularly rancid group of men. “They are disgusting.”

Caraway allowed himself a smile. He liked this bird, maybe because she reminded him so much of Francesca. Or probably because she didn’t.

“But yes,” she continued, “I work the docks. Not in the way you think. I saw the way your eye moved, John. My father was a fisherman, and when my mother died, he brought me aboard. When he passed, the boat became mine and I survived on our—on my own, at least until the storms… I still have my boat, but the fish are gone…”

A man appeared at Sotiria’s side. He was short but built, a man who had dedicated his life to the sea. With a drink sloshing around in his right hand, the man wrapped his left arm around Sotiria’s shoulder and smiled a broad, yellowed grin. Caraway crinkled his nose at the man’s overwhelming odor.

“Sotiria, χορός µε µε,” the drunk said.

“Αύριο, Nikolaos,” she calmly replied, carefully peeling off Nicholaos’s arm.

The drunk stumbled, closing his eyes as he tried to think of a response. “Ah…” he slowly began,” υτός είναι αυτό ου εί ατε εµένα-ει ωµένος µε χθες. Αυτός είναι αυτό ου εί ατε.”

Sotiria gave the man a thin, unwelcoming smile. “Και θα ω το ίδιο ράγµα αύριο,” she said. “αρακαλ, Nicholaos, κουβεντιάζω µε το φίλο µου.” Nicholaos’s tan and bearded face twisted into a scowl. “Εί α, χορός µε µε τ ρα!” he barked, violently grabbing her arm.

Caraway jumped off his stool, grabbed the drunk by the collar, and pulled him over. “Hey, bucko, the lady said no!” he paused and then looked to Sotiria, quizzically. “That is what you said, right?”

Sotiria nodded quickly, her eyes wide.

Caraway looked back at Nicholaos. “She said no,” he reiterated, “so why don’t you take a long walk off a short pier? I bet there are plenty of ’em around here, so take your pick. Or else we’re gonna have to get nasty, and you don’t want that.” He nodded to Sotiria. “Now, say that to him in Greek.”

The drunk smashed his bottle against the bar in response, and aimed it at Caraway’s face. “Piss off, American,” he said in passable English.

“All right, that’s how it’s gonna work?” Caraway said with an eager grin. Without hesitation, he twisted Nicholaos’s arm in the wrong direction. The drunk howled in pain as the broken bottle crashed to the floor. Caraway then quickly grabbed his own glass and smashed it hard onto the drunkard’s head. Nicholaos stumbled backwards into a crowded table, throwing drinks and food into the air. The bar fell silent as more than twenty men shot out of their chairs.

“Aw, hell…” Caraway grumbled.

Sotiria jumped behind the bar as a bear of a man ran screaming toward Caraway. Without thinking, Caraway grabbed his barstool and swung at the man’s face. Wood splintered and the man crumpled to the floor as two bruisers charged forward, ready for a pounding. Caraway braced himself from impact when the two hulks’ legs suddenly flew out from under them, slamming to the ground. Before Caraway could react, Ken appeared beside him, brandishing a pair of barstool legs as impromptu billy clubs. They instinctually moved back to back as an increasing mass of angry, drunken sailors encircled them.

“What the hell did you do!?” Ken hissed.

“I was talking to a girl,” Caraway said with a sardonic smile.

“Aren’t you married?”

“What can I say? Women love me.” Caraway shrugged. “Besides, we were just talkin’.”

“See, it’s because of guys like you that I’m still single,” Ken grumbled.

“Yeah. That’s the reason,” Caraway said.

“So we gonna do this? Beat everyone up?”

“Yup.”

“
Om! Ma-ni Pad-me Hum!
Eh?” Ken said with a smirk.

“
Om! Ma-ni Pad-me Hum!
Indeed.”

Petros lit a cigarette, watching the fight escalate with a thin smirk. He liked these boys.

• • •

“Might I have a word?” Hirsch asked from the entryway of the Oberführer’s private tent.

“Of course, Herr Sturmbannführer,” the Oberführer said as he finished writing a letter at his desk, offhandedly gesturing to the chair opposite him. “I’ll only be a moment.”

Hirsch sat down, watching the Oberführer scratch out the remainder of his letter. “A note to your wife or your mistress?” he asked with a smarmy grin as he picked at his cheek.

“A dear friend, if you must know,” he said, signing his name. He folded the correspondence and sealed it inside an envelope. “Johann!” the Oberführer called.

Johann ran in. Hirsch was quietly startled by his appearance. The young soldier’s skin was ghostly pale, his hair an unnatural grey bordering on white, looking as though he had aged in an instant. His eyes were glass, wavering left and right in case the shadows came alive. “Sir?”

“See that this is delivered,” the Oberführer said, handing the envelope to the
Soldat
.

The boy read the address listed and nodded in understanding. “Yes, sir.”

“Skittish little fellow, isn’t he?” Hirsch commented as he watched the boy run out.

“Poor boy’s been through a lot recently,” the Oberführer stated.

Hirsch noticed a recently pressed suit hanging in the corner. “Planning a night out?”

“Being that Jethro Dumont and I are acquainted, Gottschalk requested I pay a visit to his hotel tomorrow.” The Oberführer impatiently tapped his pen against his desk. “What is on your mind, Herr Sturmbannführer?”

Hirsch laced his fingers together and gazed at his navel. “I want to get your perspective.”

“On the dagger the doctor showed us last night, I assume,” the Oberführer said without question. “What he claimed to be a piece of this supposed Third Jade Tablet.”

“The Shard,” Hirsch said, nervously cracking his knuckles. He cleared his throat. “I understand you’ve recently had some dealing with the supernatural.”

The Oberführer shifted uncomfortably in his chair, unconsciously running a finger over the long scar on his forehead. “I am hesitant to call what I experienced in New York ‘supernatural.’”

“As you stated in your report,” Hirsch said, refusing to look the Oberführer in the eye. “However, I also remember reading that the local authorities were far more superstitious. They claimed it was a giant clay monster—a golem—that attacked our embassy.”

The Oberführer shrugged. “ Americans. Their country is full of men and women dressing up in audacious costumes, gallivanting about, claiming to have,” he waved a hand in frustration as he searched for the word, “…‘superpowers.’ Gullible imbeciles. A whole nation willing to believe the slightest suggestion of the fantastic to distract them from their pitiful existence. I am absolutely certain that whatever—whoever—attacked the consulate was, despite the opinions of my American counterparts, nothing more than a very disturbed man in an impressive costume.”

Hirsch considered this. “Then what is your take on the Shard?”

“Do you want my opinion as an officer or as a German citizen? As an officer, my superiors believe that this item will help bring about our victory, and I will do all in my power to ensure that it does.”

Hirsch finally looked directly at the Oberführer. “And as a German?”

“It is nothing more than a trinket that belongs in a museum or, at most, used as a night light,” the Oberführer said.

Hirsch sat silently for a moment. “It cut through the air, Herr Oberführer. We saw it slice right through reality, and what we saw on the other side… Explain that.”

“Well, that, Herr Sturmbannführer, I cannot explain.”

Hirsch massaged his forehead as he spoke. “I do not tell many people this, Herr Oberführer, but I am not a man of faith. I believe in the Führer, I believe in Germany. I have never, not for one second, believed in angels, demons, or for that matter, God. I believe in what I can touch,” he said, tapping his chest with his fingers, then waved his hand in front of him, “what I can see. But, what we saw last night…” he trailed off, replaying the events of last night in his mind once more. He licked his lips. “That kind of power.”

The Oberführer remained silent.

“I believe, Herr Oberführer,” Hirsch said conspiratorially. “For the first time ever, I
believe
. This Third Jade Tablet, the ‘Fire from Olympus.’ It is the power of the gods and is more formidable than anything we could possibly imagine.”

The Oberführer rested his elbows on his desk, folded his hands, and leaned forward. “If that is the case,” he began skeptically, “then what do you think we should do with it?”

Hirsch moved closer and lowered his voice until it was almost inaudible. “We should destroy it.”

• • •

The Twins’ “home”—if it could be called that—was situated in a small cave about a mile outside town, overlooking the sea. Vasili had heard of the cave from Alexei and gossip around town, but nothing could have prepared him for what they found. Covering his mouth and nose with cuff of his jacket, Vasili tried to fight back the overpowering stench of rotted fish and seawater that permeated the space, the bile rising in his stomach. It was all he could do to keep it down.

“Pretty foul, eh?” Alexei said, laughing at Vasili’s reaction. If he was at all affected by the stench, he didn’t show it.

“Yes, sir,” Vasili coughed as they moved through the entrance. “God, what is that?”

Alexei ducked his head as he walked through a low overhang. “They don’t cook their fish,” he said. “Raw, festering; that’s how they like it. They leave it out to rot for days before they eat it.”