Within an hour, sixty plainclothesmen working in teams of three and carrying a copy of the archbishop's letter, a photograph of Annika Vanden Haag, and descriptions of the possible suspects were on rented motorbikes heading to every known church in the countryside named for Saint Kiriake. Teams with more than one church to cover were assigned churches as close as possible to each other, with at least one team member stationed at each one. Team members were ordered to remain in open radio contact with one another at all times until relieved. Five uniformed two-man teams, in marked cars, were assigned specific areas of the island to serve as backup, just in case. All were told to be polite but firm and, if asked the reason for the search, to state only that they were acting with the permission of the archbishop and to show the letter.
Seventy cops were now dispersed throughout the Mykonos countryside. Another dozen were walking beats among the churches in town. Tassos said it might have been the biggest show of force on Mykonos since World War II. It couldn't help but attract attention from the locals. Still, it was the best plan they could come up with under the circumstances — at least that's what Andreas hoped. He limped all the way down the tunnel, wheeling the bike. When he reached the cell he leaned it against the wall and opened the door. The tribute lay exactly where he'd left her. Still breathing, too. As he went inside, he stooped to pick up a water bottle on the floor. He walked over to her, dropped his pants to his ankles, and sat next to her. The floor was cold. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, as if in prayer, then at her as he poured water on his thigh and rubbed at the blood and dirt in his wound. He poured on more water but his eyes were back on the ceiling, as if he was waiting for a sign.
It was the pinging that caught his attention. Very high-pitched, like metal striking metal. It wasn't a natural sound in a mine. He leaped up and pulled on his pants. Sweeping her up in his arms as if she weighed no more than a doll, he carried Annika out of the cell. The sound was getting closer. He lifted her onto the bike so that her legs straddled the frame and her chest leaned forward over the handlebars. Looking down the pitch-black tunnel, he determined that the sound was coming from there. Behind him was the entrance he'd just used, which led into daylight at the middle of the island.
There was no other way to go but toward the sound. In that direction two tunnels branched off to the right. The one he wanted was the second, less than three hundred yards from where he stood. The other was only a hundred yards away, and the sound seemed to be coming from that one. He pushed the bike ahead into the darkness. There was no time to get his night-vision goggles or anything else. It didn't matter. He knew his way from here in the dark and that he'd better hurry.
He was almost to the first tunnel when he saw a faint flicker on the wall ahead of him to the left. Someone was coming down the tunnel. He heard the noise again, then voices. He had to get past the opening or they'd find him for sure. He pushed the bike faster, and at the change in momentum, her body unexpectedly slumped away from him. The bike began to tip. He grabbed for her with one hand and steadied the bike with the other. He was almost at the first tunnel. He held his breath and listened. He saw more flickers, brighter but still random as if no one was paying attention to what was up ahead. Again, he held his breath, seemed to immerse himself in deep prayer, and pushed the bike and the girl across the opening. The three men had been walking in the dark since eight in the morning, stumbling over, under, and around boulders, timbers, and all sorts of debris without finding a sign of anything but snakes and feral dogs. As far as they were concerned, they were on a dusty wild-goose chase into a dilapidated and dangerous hole. No one in his right mind would walk around in here — least of all a young tourist woman.
For the first few hours they'd been careful to be quiet. They weren't trying to surprise anyone; they just didn't want someone to hear them coming and set up an ambush. After a near miss from a surprised — and striking — viper, they decided a little noise was a better risk than startled dogs and snakes. None of them had any plans of becoming a hero or doing any more than was required to keep the mayor happy and themselves on the municipal payroll.
The oldest of the three had worked in the mines thirty years ago and the other two — both in their twenties — had to put up with his stories of the 'good old days' of six-day work weeks, sleeping next to the mines in five-man tents and living off the food he'd carried back from town on his one day off. At first they listened to kill the boredom, but when he started talking about ghosts haunting the mines, they told him to 'shut the hell up.' He didn't. Instead, he began pinging away with the butt end of his sheath knife at the miner's tool he carried. 'To ward off the spirits,' he said. It also kept his weapon handy. Something they all did — just in case.
They'd gone in through an entrance on a hillside above the priest's beach and walked west for two hours before turning southwest into a connecting tunnel. That was several hours ago. Now they were coming up on a T. If they turned right at that spot and walked two hundred yards they'd be at the beginning of a mile-and-a-half-long tunnel running north to the sea. If they went left, they'd end up outside about a quarter-mile away, just below an old mining road. The oldest searcher said that heading left was very dangerous — the tunnel was almost impassable — and they should take the tunnel to the right to get out.
'Bullshit,' said the youngest, who was out in front. 'I'm not walking another couple miles in this shit if I can get out in a quarter-mile. Have some other assholes check out that tunnel over there.' He swung his head to the right to indicate where he meant, and the light on his miner's helmet turned with it.
'Hey, keep your light pointed where you're headed,' said the oldest. 'I don't want to have to carry you out of here because you trip over something.' He kept his own eyes on the fifteen feet in front of him, regularly glancing farther ahead to see what to prepare for next. 'That's how you get through dangerous places like this.' He'd told them that over and over.
'Yeah, yeah,' said the youngest. 'Hey, I see the T, there it is.' He pointed and started walking faster.
The oldest shook his head. 'Take it easy, and remember, take the right. We're going back the safe way.'
As the youngest reached the merge he looked back over his left shoulder, threw an open palm at the oldest — the Greek equivalent of the middle-finger salute — and turned left. He froze in midstep. 'Jesus. Look at that.' He was pointing straight ahead.
The others ran up to him. A hundred yards straight ahead, light was streaming into the tunnel. There appeared to be an open door. They looked at one another, checked their weapons, and crossed themselves. They seemed like frightened rabbits about to confront a hound. Cautiously, as if in prayer, they headed toward the light, their eyes fastened to it, their ears perked for sounds ahead, beyond the crunch of their own boots on the earth.
By the time they reached the door the man holding his breath in the dark — ten feet to the right of where they'd turned left — had finished his own prayers and slid deeper into the darkness. Only the faintly perceptible sound of wheels under weight turning slowly in the dirt could be heard — if someone were listening for the sound in that direction. But no one was, so no one ever heard him or saw him — or her.
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