Caine looked over at the serried ranks of low, white buildings that started four kilometers back from the base of the headland. His glance must have imparted his dubious opinion of an excursion there. Nolan urged, “Look, don’t waste this day: go do a little sightseeing. The view from the bluffs”-he waved in a vague northwesterly direction-“is spectacular.”
“And how am I supposed to get around?”
“The car you came in is still down at the bottom of the slope.”
“I think my driver’s license expired about fourteen years ago.”
“We’ve already taken care of that. Besides, cars are automated now-well, in most places. Should be here, although I think they may still be expanding the road sensor nets.”
“Guards?”
“Not needed-and they’d only draw attention.”
Caine looked up at the craggy, arid highlands Nolan had indicated. Well, maybe a quick drive would be fun-
“Oh, and on the way up, drop in on Richard and tell him his collarcom has apparently died.”
“Sure. Where is he?”
“At the Herakles Olympic training stadium, just a few kilometers out on the western coast road, near Legonia. The car will have it in memory.”
“The keys?”
“In the car. Tell Richard I’ll meet him at the villa, and will brief him at 1900. It’s where you’re staying also, so the car knows the way back home.”
Caine nodded, put up a hand in farewell.
Nolan returned the wave, smiled, and went back to inspecting the sea and the sky, framed between the same two columns.
Chapter Fifteen
ODYSSEUS
The car clearly knew where to go: at a word, it started itself and sped out of the Kapo Sounio national park, swerving briskly to the right as it came to the coast road. It plunged down into the town/hotel. Half of the buildings were faux reproductions of the ubiquitous whitewashed cottages of the Aegean, and all somewhat worse for the wear: clearly, this area had gone through the full cycle of boom and bust in the past few decades.
The vehicle, conspicuously large among the prevalent two-seater fuel cell econoboxes, weaved expertly through the streets, giving wide berths to the terrifyingly fearless pedestrians, who pushed their food carts and baby carriages within inches of the roadway. In an Irish accent, the vehicle started asking Caine if he wanted music, news, sport, weather-
And then bucked and screeched to a halt in the middle of the road, a red light pulsing urgently at the center of the dash.
Caine searched for a problem, found none, wasn’t even sure what all the gauges meant. “What the hell is wrong?” he asked, and then realized, Jesus Christ, I’m talking to a car.
Stranger still, it answered. “Road sensors inoperative in this region; please assume manual control.”
“But which way do I-?”
“All automated functions suspended. Road sensors inoperative in this region: please assume-”
“Oh, all right”-and, foot on the brake, he fumbled for the shifter. Expecting more resistance-it was a digital sliding switch now, not a mechanical gear selector-he over-shifted into low gear: the car jumped forward, then banged down into a crawl.
Horns-from behind and in the cross-street he had just blocked-registered local reactions to his driving abilities. As Caine eased into the next gear-the car shuddering forward against the still-locked brakes-locals turned to look. They were joined by a few tourists, distinctive in their sundresses, sports jackets, sunglasses. One man, very tall, smiled a little.
Caine grimaced a smile back at him, advanced the gear switch, realized he still had his foot on the brake, and lifted it. The car seemed to hop forward, rushing him swiftly away from the scene of embarrassment.
In the rearview mirror, the tall tourist with the sunglasses was still looking after him. And was still smiling…
CIRCE
Still smiling, the tall man turned to resume his journey, found his way blocked by a squat and rather hirsute local who was shaking a half-hearted fist after the fleeing vehicle. “Tourist,” the local snorted, and then, noticing the attention of the tall-and obviously foreign-man, looked up with apologetic eyes.
The tall man kept looking, kept smiling, the wraparound sunglasses a bar of black opacity. The local smiled, shrugged an apology, and moved off, with one backward glance at the tall man-who had not moved, but who kept watching him. The squat local disappeared quickly into a cluster of oncoming pedestrians.
Turning on his heel, the tall man resumed his measured walk to the corner, turning into the narrow side street. Genuine cobblestones-older than most of the repro buildings that now flanked them-wobbled down toward the sea, some buildings tilting inward over them, some away. He shifted the bag of groceries he was carrying to his left arm, reached into his right pocket, produced a keyring festooned with real keys: toothed, mechanical, archaic keys.
Three young boys blocked his path, playing something akin to street hockey with makeshift boards and a small child’s ball, stamped with the outline of a Mickey Mouse head, the face erased by sun and time. He slowed as he approached; the boys looked up, stopped playing. He walked on, down the cobblestone street and up the small rise at its end, from which one could enjoy a commanding view of the ocean and the high angles of the Temple of Poseidon, poised on the tip of the south-pointing headland to the west.
The tall man carefully selected one of the keys as he approached the only two-story building at the end of the street: a dilapidated duplex with a distinct lack of local charm. He opened the door, looked back. Up the street, the boys turned away quickly as if to deny that they had been watching him the whole time, and hastily resumed their game. The man smiled, shut the door behind him and mounted the stairs with long, even steps.
Entering the sea-facing apartment, he put the keys back in his pocket as he crossed into the kitchenette: cockroaches scurried away to refuges under the cupboards, alarmed at the intrusion. He dumped the bag’s uppermost contents-the bread, the oranges, soda cans and other unnecessary items-into the rust-stained sink as he walked past, not breaking his stride.
He pushed open the balcony door, still cradling the bag carefully, and scanned north. Halfway to the hills which flattened down into the coast, a small rim of concrete rose above the low roofs: the Herakles stadium. He scanned south: the sea. One security delta was slowly angling back in. He noted the vehicle, checked his watch.
Then he scanned west. A clear view of the Sounion headland and the Temple of Poseidon, just over six kilometers away. He reached down into the grocery bag, pulled out a canned ham and a large ceramic bell jar, crookedly adorned with the label of a grinning, buxom farm girl carrying a cornucopia of agricultural riches. He opened the lid; from the dark, glass-lined interior, there rose a sharp tang of high-molarity acid. He replaced the cap, resealed the jar, put it down to his right, behind the balcony’s chest-high weather wall.
He pried back the seal on the canned ham, pulled the covering facade of meat aside, removed the plastic-sealed wide-lens binoculars, the jar of Vaseline, and a small, separately wrapped tripod. Throwing the wrappings aside, he snugged the binoculars into the tripod, which he mounted on the corner of the weather wall. He leaned over, swiveled the binoculars in the direction of the Temple of Poseidon, adjusted the lenses. Beyond the columns, occluded from the waist down, Corcoran’s silhouette swam into focus. He counted the number of columns to Nolan’s left, to his right, checked his watch, pulled out a paper pad, hastily scribbled additions to a growing set of notes.