Taggart’s cry carried down Main Street, followed rapidly by his charging frame with gun cradled in his arms.
The rest happened so fast that it seemed not to be happening at all.
A pair of soldiers saw Taggart coming and leveled their guns at him. He slowed but didn’t stop; his sad eyes were on the rats, and he was aware of nothing else. He was still giving chase when both soldiers fired. A pair of staccato bursts, and Hal Taggart was tossed backward, midsection and apron drenched in blood, arms and legs twitching when he landed.
The rest of the soldiers turned their weapons on the townspeople who were standing in the street in shock. Fingers grasped for triggers, uncertain of what to do next as people began rushing about with no clear sense of purpose.
“Cease fire!” screamed the bereted leader. “Cease fire!”
The echoes of a few random shots sifted down Main Street. Somewhere glass shattered. Then came stunned silence as the people of Pamosa Springs became prisoners in their own town.
Part Two
Into the Labyrinth
Athens: Wednesday, noon
Chapter 10
It was mid-afternoon Wednesday before McCracken was settled in Athens. The journey had taken twenty taxing hours, thanks to a trio of plane changes deemed necessary in case Sundowner tried to have him followed.
He checked into a small hotel located in the center of the city’s modern section. The clerk spoke good enough English to help him ascertain that Kapo Stadipopolis, the antique dealer from whom Earnst had received the Atragon crystals, maintained his shop in the heart of the famed Monastiraki Square.
Blaine would head there as soon as he managed to get washed and changed.
Spring in the Mediterranean was traditionally warm, and once back in the streets he wore only a light jacket over his shirt to keep his shoulder holster concealed. He found the city of Athens to be a paradox, but a pleasant one. It blended the modern flavor, luxury, and sense of a national and commercial capital with the ancient traditions that provided the city its fame. From his hotel in Omonia Square, Blaine had intended to walk to Stadipopolis’s shop, but he had underestimated the distance and hailed a cab instead. The driver proceeded due south down Athena Street and deposited him in the heart of the Athens shopping district.
In effect, Monastiraki Square marked the beginning of Old Athens or the Plaka. The Square itself was formed by three intersecting streets lined with shops and open-air markets of every kind. As usual, it was bustling with activity. The hot sun beat down, but the shoppers seemed not to mind, some simply strolling, others negotiating with shopkeepers in search of the best possible bargain. Waiters in long white aprons struggled to keep up with the flow of the many patrons in and out of the various outdoor cafes. Merchants selling their wares out of boxes or platforms in the street called eagerly to tourists as they passed, changing languages as frequently as smiles.
According to the hotel clerk, Kapo Stadipopolis’s antique shop was located in the center of Pandrosos Street, and Blaine made his way toward it. He was feeling quite secure. No one could possibly know that he had gone to Greece, and he took considerable comfort in that.
Stadipopolis’s shop, called “Kapo’s,” was as simple as Earnst’s parlor had been lavish. It was wedged between two other buildings, one a fruit market and the other a bakery specializing in uniquely Greek creations. Blaine passed the shop twice from the outside and saw it was packed from floor to ceiling with artifacts at various prices, all labeled in both drachmas and dollars. There were voices coming from inside, a seller — Stadipopolis probably — arguing with a prospective buyer. Blaine entered and heard the slight tinkling of windchimes. There was little room to maneuver amid the clutter near the entrance, and he moved forward.
“Not a penny less, I tell you,” a curly-haired Greek with a thick mustache was insisting. “One hundred American dollars.”
“Fifty,” replied a well-dressed man with a woman tight by his side. McCracken felt he was trying to impress her with his negotiating ability.
The Greek held up a vase. “Mister, this is hundreds of years old. You want to go home and show off something authentic or go home and brag about how you talked a poor merchant into a bargain for something less? It’s a crime what you do to us. You think I won’t be able to sell this to the next person who walks through that door? You think I won’t?”
“All right,” the man relented, “seventy-five.”
“Hah! Seventy-five, he says. I pay eighty for this and he offers seventy-five like he’s doing me a favor. How are my children supposed to eat if I lose money on all my transactions? You have children perhaps?” he asked the woman.
“No,” she replied, slightly embarrassed.
“Well, I do. Seven of them. Each looks like their mother, thank God. I tell you this, I been married to her twenty wonderful years, since I was seventeen. You married that long?”
The couple said nothing.
“We start young here. In Greece, you start young with everything. Even business. I can sell this to you for less than what I paid under no circumstances. Nothing personal. The next man through the door will jump at it for one hundred, even one-twenty-five.” He noticed McCracken. “Hey you, come over here. What you think of this? Come, be honest….”
Blaine walked over to the counter and squinted his eyes as he ran his fingers lightly over the vase. “Most impressive,” he noted professionally. “I’d say from the Hadrian period. Yes, the Ionic propylon markings definitely date it back to the second century A.D., give or take a hundred years. I’ll offer you five thousand American for it.”
The young couple were already moving for the door, shaking their heads and not offering good-byes. The door opened and closed. The windchimes tolled softly again.
The curly-haired Greek was shaking Blaine’s hand enthusiastically, eyes wide. “I tell you this, my friend. They say I know more history than anyone on the Square, but you know more even than me. I respect you, so I let you have this piece for only, well, I’m in a good mood, say two thousand American.”
“I made it up,” Blaine told him.
“Huh?”
“I doubt anything from the Hadrian period of Greece has ‘Made in Japan’ stamped on its bottom.”
Stadipopolis found himself foolishly turning the vase upside down as McCracken ambled toward an open case of “authentic” Greek artifacts demanding incredible prices.
“I tell you this, my friend,” the Greek said, following him out from behind the counter. “You cost me money a few minutes ago. You owe me for that. There is maybe something—”
“I’m not buying,” Blaine said as he rotated a small green dish in his hand. Then he turned to the Greek. “I’m selling.”
“As you can maybe see, my inventory is a bit overstocked.”
“What I have to sell won’t take up much room, Mr. Stadipopolis.”
The Greek’s expression turned apprehensive. McCracken moved back toward the counter, Kapo Stadipopolis right behind him.
“How you know me, American?”
“Only by reputation.”
“How come I don’t know you?”
“Because we haven’t been introduced, nor are we about to be.”
“I don’t buy from strangers, I tell you this.”
“Really?” said Blaine, placing the small piece of Atragon Sundowner had let him take on the counter top. “What a pity …”
Stadipopolis’ eyes bulged. His lips trembled, and his olive skin paled.
“Wh-wh-where? H-h-how?”
“America. Erich Earnst. That’s all you need to know. The rest of the questions are mine.”