The Oracle, page 22
Niko asks, “Is there a problem?”
Leon looks Karl up and down. “No… No problem.”
“Then—”
“Where is it?” Leon asks, not content to let them pass. “Where is this treasure you speak of?”
Niko leans his bicycle against his hip, swings the rucksack down off his back, and rests it on the seat of his bike. He opens the drawstring and reaches into the bag.
Karl’s heart pounds within his chest. He’s worried Niko’s going to pull the Luger on Leon, but if Karl’s right and there’s a machine gun nest watching the checkpoint, that would result in a firefight. A very short, one-sided firefight. Karl’s eyes go wide. He grits his teeth, struggling to know what to say to signal to Niko not to do anything rash.
“We stole this from the monastery,” Karl says, hoping Niko will follow his lead.
Nico unfolds the cloth wrapped around the polished bronze cross, but he doesn’t pull it out of the bag. Instead, he tilts the opening of the bag over so Leon can see inside.
“Gold?” a surprised Leon says, looking at the way the light catches the polished surface.
“Solid gold,” Niko replies. “With rubies.”
“This is good,” Leon says, reaching for the cross. “I could—”
“Oh, no,” Karl says. He takes a chance on his instinct. He reaches out and places his hand on Leon’s chest in much the same way Leon did to him earlier, deliberately mimicking him, knowing bullies like Leon respect only one thing: strength.
Niko says, “We will take this to the port.”
Leon nods and steps back. “Go left at the crossroads to get to Kirra. Avoid Itea. The gendarmerie is still in control of the west. Even in the east, our people struggle with the local police, but you should be fine until dawn. You’ll find Grigoris at the warehouse by the breakwater. The trawler is due today.”
“In the port?”
“It will anchor just off the breakwater. There’s no port as such, not for ships, just fishing boats.”
“Thanks,” Niko says, hoisting the bag back over his shoulder and climbing back on his bicycle. Karl doesn’t say anything. He avoids eye contact and mounts his bike, keeping his rifle slung over his shoulder, and rides after Niko.
Once they’re a few hundred yards away, Niko says, “That was close.”
“Too close,” Karl replies.
The Breakwater
The road leading to the coast narrows to a dirt track barely wide enough for a horse and cart. Low stone walls mark out fields.
Dogs bark as they approach the small fishing village of Kirra. Advanced warnings make Karl nervous; Germans have long used dogs to alert them to intruders. He has no doubt villagers and communist fighters alike will be peering out of darkened windows, watching their approach. The tires of their bicycles crunch on the gravel. A cool breeze blows in from the coast.
Kirra is a fishing village. Brick walls reach up to ten feet on either side of them.
“I don’t like this,” Karl says nervously.
“It is okay. I know them,” Niko replies.
Karl isn’t so sure. In the grainy night, with moonlight casting shadows from the trees, there could be someone standing not more than ten feet away in the darkness, and he wouldn’t know it. What should be a road becomes an alley, with the walls of the various homes and buildings ending abruptly at the edge of the track.
As they get closer to the coast, the buildings reach up two stories, towering over the road, providing multiple vantage points for lookouts and snipers. Flat concrete rooftops are ideal for soldiers. Lying prone, they can peer along the street. If they move back, they can sit up and walk around without being seen from below. There are no tiles to trip over or break, and little to no noise. There could be dozens of soldiers on the various rooftops holding the high ground.
Smoke drifts from a burned-out car in one of the intersections they cross. Dark stains reveal where someone bled out on the pavement. Bullet holes line the stone walls. As they’re roughly in a line, it was from machine gun fire. And yet on they ride into the night.
The first indication that they’re close to the gulf is the sound of waves lapping at rocks in the darkness. The waterfront is abrupt. Suddenly, the houses stop. The road, though, continues, forming a breakwater that reaches easily a hundred yards from shore.
As they come to a halt, a red light flares from the darkened doorway of a warehouse on the edge of the breakwater. A soldier draws in on a cigarette, sucking hard and causing the smoldering embers to light up. Karl has no doubt it’s deliberate. If he’s giving away his position, it’s because someone is covering him. Karl doesn’t want to turn and look, but he’s reasonably sure there’s another guard on the other side of the road, probably hidden by the shadows of the palm tree growing beside the water’s edge.
“What are you doing out so late?” the guard asks, walking out on the road and into the moonlight. His rifle is shouldered. He might look relaxed, but Greece is at war. As one war ends, another is beginning. There’s no doubt in Karl’s mind that someone has a pair of iron sights lined up on his chest. A finger is stroking the smooth, curved steel of a rifle trigger. Any sudden moves and they’re dead.
From the guard’s traditional mountain clothing, it’s clear he’s not a police officer or a soldier, not in the classic sense of the word. He’s got to be one of the communist resistance.
“We’re looking for Grigoris,” Niko says. “Grigoris Demiris.”
“Who’s looking for Grigoris Demiris?”
“Niko Aggelou from Delphi.”
“And?” the guard asks, looking at Karl with the rifle slung over his shoulder.
Niko says, “Dimitri.”
“Dimitri who?”
“Dimitri it doesn’t matter who. Go and get Grigoris.”
Karl likes Niko’s style. They’re gambling—bluffing. They’ve got nothing. There are only two of them against who knows how many others, and they’re teenagers. They’re not soldiers, but Niko fills big shoes.
The guard drops the stub of his hand-rolled cigarette and rubs it out with his boot.
“Wait here.”
The guard walks off.
Quietly, Niko says, “Keep your hands in sight on the handlebars.”
“Oh, yeah,” Karl says, trying to observe as much of the port village around them without moving his head too much. He’s facing the warehouse, but with a slight turn of his head and by moving his eyes hard to either side, he can see the waterfront. Trees line a rocky wall leading down to the sea. Dinghies float just offshore, having been anchored in the shallow water. Waves lap at their wooden hulls.
The warehouse is two stories high, but it is barely as wide as it is tall. The smell of dead fish lingers in the air. A light comes on inside, shining from beneath the door. The windows have been blackened, but that’s not uncommon during wartime. It’s an easy way to avoid attracting the wrong kind of attention and doesn’t necessarily mean anything illegal is happening.
The door opens.
“Brother Niko,” an overweight bald man says. “What brings you to Kirra in the middle of the night?”
“We needed to avoid patrols.”
“We?”
“Ah, this is Dimitri,” Niko says, but he doesn’t sound as confident or boisterous as he did with the guard. He’s intimidated by Grigoris. “Um, he’s from Russia.”
“From Russia?” Grigoris asks, walking around the two of them standing there beside their bicycles. He circles them like a shark at sea, looking for an opening to strike. Karl fights the temptation to turn to watch him and keeps his head facing forward. It’s important to look confident and relaxed, not nervous.
Grigoris has a handgun. Karl doesn’t recognize the make, but he suspects it is American, as it has a solid build. Lugers are lean. Most of the European handguns are revolvers with wooden butts. The slide hides the barrel, making it bulky. The hammer is back, so it’s loaded.
Grigoris says, “Privetstviya.”
Without hesitation, Karl replies, “Kak dela, tovarisch?”
“Hmm,” Grigoris says, and Karl hopes he’s exhausted the man’s understanding of the Russian language. “And what is so important that it could not wait until dawn?”
“We have something for you?” Niko says. Slowly, he brings the bag down from his shoulder and rests it on the handlebars.
Karl has no idea what Niko’s going to do, and the idea of simply riding into Kirra without a plan seems spectacularly stupid now that they’re here, but what plan could they have made? They had no idea about the layout of the town or the warehouse. They might think they’re adults, they may act like adults, but they’re kids caught up in a war.
Karl watches as Niko reaches into the bag. And he quickly realizes everyone is watching as Niko reaches into his bag. No one knows what Niko is about to pull out. If it’s the Luger, Karl is going to throw his bicycle to one side and jump in the opposite direction. He’s less than ten feet from the edge of the breakwater. As it’s been formed from concrete poured on boulders, it will provide good cover. He’ll be at least waist-deep in the water, but he’ll be able to return fire, or so he hopes. How many bullets does he have? Karl has no idea. He counted them back in the olive grove, but his mind is blank. Coming here was a dumb idea, and it’s going to get them killed.
Niko pulls out the cross. He unfolds the cloth, exposing it to the moonlight, and hands it to Grigoris. In the soft light, the cross appears to be made from gold. And it’s heavy. Grigoris tosses it in his hand, assessing its weight.
“Nice,” Grigoris says. “You’ve done well, Niko.”
“Thank you,” Niko says, returning the bag to his shoulder.
“Come.”
The two of them lean their bicycles against the wall of the warehouse and follow him inside. As they step over the threshold, Grigoris says, “You can leave your rifle there.”
“Of course,” Karl says, swinging his rifle down and leaning it in the corner by the door.
Inside the warehouse, there’s a kerosene lantern. Several men sleep in wooden cots with heavy woolen blankets draped over them. They’ve turned their heads away from the light. Rifles, machine guns and backpacks rest up against the wall. A bunch of crates have been stacked to one side. Several of them are oversized and hold paintings stacked sideways within them. Straw surrounds a marble statue within an elongated crate. Three of the four sides have been nailed in place. There are a couple of smaller crates. At a guess, the Omphalos will be in one of them simply because it is small and easy to fit in alongside other artifacts.
“The Liberation arrives tomorrow.”
Niko nods, but doesn’t respond to Grigoris. Karl wishes he’d say something, anything, as his nerves are showing.
The rotund man says, “You can help us load the trawler.”
“Yes,” Karl says after waiting a second or so for Niko to acknowledge Grigoris.
“Have a seat, boys,” the older man says, and Karl can’t explain how he knows, but Grigoris hasn’t been fooled by the cross. Perhaps it’s that he seems too friendly. Perhaps it’s that he’s patronizing them, calling them boys. Perhaps it’s that Grigoris is still holding his pistol rather than returning it to the holster on his hip. Niko must sense that as well. That’s why he’s so damn nervous.
Grigoris rests the bronze cross on the table next to the hissing gas lamp. He places his gun on the table beside the cross. Now that Karl can see it in the light, he recognizes the weapon. It’s an American-made M1911 semi-automatic pistol firing a massive .45 caliber round. It’s heavy and clunks on the scratched wooden table. As it’s out of reach across the table, even if Karl lunged for it, Grigoris would get there quicker. The old man is intimidating them—and it’s working.
“Please,” he says as the two of them stand behind the old wooden seats instead of sitting down.
“Yes, of course,” Niko says.
“Coffee?” Grigoris asks, picking up a blackened pot with a short spout. It’s sitting on a potbelly stove. Coals glow in the cast-iron oven.
“Yes,” both of them reply, feeling at ease now that Grigoris seems to have relaxed. He pours black coffee into two enamel mugs and hands them to the teens.
“Thank you,” they reply.
“Now,” Grigoris says, sitting opposite them and picking up the gun. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re really here?”
“What?” Niko says, feigning innocence.
“It’s fake,” Grigoris says, pointing at the heavy cross with the barrel of his pistol. “Brass, if I’m not mistaken. And those gems. I suspect they’re nothing more than colored glass.”
Karl swallows the lump in his throat.
“Be honest with me, Niko.”
Grigoris sits back slightly from the table. He rests his elbows on his knees, holding the gun in front of them, pointing it between them. It’s a bizarre mix of being relaxed and utterly intense.
He makes eye contact with Niko, saying, “Who sent you?”
“No one,” Niko says with a trembling voice. “I swear.”
Karl is curious about the dynamic unfolding among the three of them. Grigoris’s not worried about either of them. They’re teenagers. They’re no threat to him. Karl can see it in the intensity glistening in his eyes. He thinks they’ve been sent here by someone else to scout out the warehouse.
Karl lies. “The gendarmerie.”
“Ah,” Grigoris says with a knowing smile. He leans back on his seat. The gun points slightly to one side. That’s what he wanted to hear. Niko, though, looks horrified. Grigoris must think Niko’s mortified by Karl’s confession, but it’s a lie, a lie that goes nowhere.
“When will they attack?”
Karl is decisive, and not just because lies need to be spoken with conviction, but because if he hesitates, they’re dead.
“Tomorrow.”
“What are they waiting for?”
Karl’s stumped, but Niko jumps in, following his lead.
“Reinforcements from Erateini.”
“Erateini?”
“Yes, that’s it,” Karl replies, but he’s a little too quick to reinforce a lie. Whether Grigoris senses that or not, he’s unsure, but there’s a fine line between truth and a lie. Overconfidence is as revealing as hesitation. Karl tightens his lips, watching the expression on the old man’s face, desperately trying to read his mind.
“This is good,” Grigoris says.
“Good?” a clearly surprised Niko says.
“You’ve betrayed me, boy, but I’ll forgive you.”
Grigoris is a bad liar. It’s the way the gun moves in his hand that reveals what he’s really thinking. He waves it around as though he were the baton of a conductor working with an orchestra. It reveals the way the machinations of his mind are unfolding. He’d kill them if he could, but he doesn’t want to tip his hand to the local police.
“You’ll go back to them. You’ll tell them there are dozens of us, no, ten soldiers. Make it ten. Let’s not exaggerate, but tell them we have machine guns and a crate full of grenades. That will make them think twice, and that will buy us time.”
“I understand,” Niko says, avoiding eye contact.
“And you,” Grigoris says, addressing Karl, pointing the gun at him. “You’ll stay here with me. I’d like to introduce you to my Russian friends when they arrive.”
Karl swallows the lump in his throat, knowing the Russians will torture and then kill him.
“Get going, boy,” the old man says to Niko.
“Yes, Grigoris.” Niko gets to his feet. His head hangs low. It seems he’s ashamed. With trembling lips, he says, “Forgive me, my brother.”
“What?” a confused Grigoris says, as he’s already lied about forgiveness.
Niko reaches into his canvas bag and pulls out the Luger.
“No,” Karl says, seeing what’s unfolding as though in slow motion. His eyes go wide. He raises his hands, wanting to stop both of them from reacting.
Niko pushes him aside, knocking Karl out of the way and into his chair. The chair scrapes along the ground, toppling onto the floor.
Grigoris and Niko fire within fractions of a second of each other. Karl has no idea who fired first, but both shots hit. Tiny pieces of hot lead tear through them. The shock of two bullets being fired in the closed confines of the warehouse is overwhelming. It’s as though the building has been struck by a giant.
Grigoris grabs his throat as blood spurts from flesh torn from his neck. He reels to one side, spitting and choking on his own blood. He tries to scramble to his feet, but he collapses into the table. Grigoris knocks the old kerosene lamp onto the floor. The glass breaks. Flames leap across the straw strewn on the floor.
Niko collapses back against a wooden crate, clutching his chest. Blood seeps between his fingers.
The three men in the cots spring up, grabbing their boots and rifles, hoisting suspenders over their shoulders to hold up their trousers. They’re confused. Disoriented. Flames climb the wall of the warehouse, having rushed across the floor.
Karl points at the door, yelling, “Gendarmerie! Gendarmerie!”
The three men run for the door, with one of them still trying to slip on his boots without tying the laces. As soon as they’re beyond the threshold, Karl slams the door shut behind them and throws the bolt, locking them outside. Almost immediately, someone pounds on the door, yelling.
The fire crackles. Smoke chokes the air. Grigoris’s hand has slipped from his throat. Blood pools on the floor. Dead eyes stare at the flames. Karl grabs the American pistol and releases the hammer. He slips the gun into the small of his back and rushes back to Niko.
“Easy, Niko.”
“Head or heart, right?” Niko says, spitting blood from his mouth and forcing himself to smile. “For me… heart.”
“I’m going to get you out of here.”
“No, the artifact. Sophia’s artifact. Find it. You must find it. Promise me you’ll find it—protect it.”
